Yesterday morning Miss Lavinia received a letter from Sylvester Latham,
thanking her for the offer of temporary protection for his daughter, and
telling her, in curt business terms, meant to be affable, to name her own
price for the office.
I have never before seen the ladylike Lavinia Dorman so completely and
ungovernably angry. I could do nothing with her, and last evening it took
the united efforts of Martin, father, and Evan to convince her that it
was not a real affront. Poor Mr. Latham, he has not yet gotten beyond
money valuation of friendship; but then it is probably because he has had
no chance. Perhaps--but no, life is too serious just now in that quarter
for me to allow myself remotely pleasant perhapses.
Miss Lavinia was too agitated to play piquet to-night, so she and Martin
sat in the porch where the light from the hall lamp was sufficient to
enable them to play a couple of games of backgammon, to steady her
nerves, she said; and presently, as the dice ceased rattling, Evan gave
me a nudge of intelligence, and looking over I found that they had
reversed the board and were playing "Give away" with checkers.
"After this, what?" I whispered to Evan.
"Jackstraws," he answered, shaking with silent laughter.
* * * * *
Horace Bradford turned his mind for the next few days to the many things
about the place that needed his attention, resolving that he would let a
week or so elapse before making any further attempt to see Sylvia, and in
that time hoped to find Miss Lavinia at home, and from her possibly
receive some light upon the gossip about Mr.
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