They had been talking since eight. Charles and his sister had had
a long conversation following Captain Hunniwell's visit and then,
after a pretense at supper--a pretense made largely on Babbie's
account--the young man had come straight to the shop and to Jed.
He had found the latter in a state of extreme dejection. He was
sitting before the little writing table in his living-room, his
elbows on the desk and his head in his hands. The drawer of the
table was open and Jed was, apparently, gazing intently at
something within. When Phillips entered the room he started,
hastily slammed the drawer shut, and raised a pale and distressed
face to his visitor.
"Eh?" he exclaimed. "Oh, it's you, Charlie, ain't it? I--I--er--
good mornin'. It's--it's a nice day."
Charles smiled slightly and shook his head.
"You're a little mixed on the time, aren't you, Jed?" he observed.
"It WAS a nice day, but it is a nice evening now."
"Eh? Is it? Land sakes, I presume likely 'tis. Must be after
supper time, I shouldn't wonder."
"Supper time! Why, it's after eight o'clock. Didn't you know it?"
"No-o. No, I guess not. I--I kind of lost run of the time, seems
so."
"Haven't you had any supper?"
"No-o. I didn't seem to care about supper, somehow."
"But haven't you eaten anything?"
"No. I did make myself a cup of tea, but twan't what you'd call a
success.
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