This was the atmosphere he had longed for. This, too, was where
Peter lived. Here were the chairs he sat in, the books he read,
the pictures he enjoyed. And the well-dressed, well-bred people,
the hum of low voices, the clusters of roses, the shaded candles,
their soft rosy light falling on the egg-shell cups and saucers
and silver service, and the lovely girl dispensing all this
hospitality and cheer! Yes, here he could live, breathe, enjoy
life. Everything was worth while and just as he had expected to
find it.
When the throng grew thick about her table he left Ruth's side,
taking the opportunity to speak to Peter or Miss Felicia (he knew
few others), but he was back again whenever the chance offered.
"Don't send me away again," he pleaded when he came back for the
twentieth time, and with so much meaning in his voice that she
looked at him with wide-open eyes. It was not what he said--she
had been brought up on that kind of talk--it was the way he said
it, and the inflection in his voice.
"I have been literally starving for somebody like you to talk to,"
he continued, drawing up a stool and settling himself determinedly
beside her.
Pages:
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182