So I said to Jim, 'I don't
know you any more--get!' and I just slipped on this frock and ordered
Manuela around as I used to do--and she in fits of laughter; I reckon,
Clarence, she hasn't laughed as much since I left. And then I thought of
you--perhaps worried and flustered as yet over things, and the change,
and I just slipped into the kitchen and I told old fat Conchita to make
some of these tortillas you know,--with sugar and cinnamon sprinkled on
top,--and I tied on an apron and brought 'em up to you on a tray with
a glass of that old Catalan wine you used to like. Then I sorter felt
frightened when I got here, and I didn't hear any noise, and I put the
tray down in the hall and peeped in and found you asleep. Sit still,
I'll fetch em."
She tripped out into the passage, returning with the tray, which she put
on the table beside Clarence, and then standing back a little and with
her hands tucked soubrette fashion in the tiny pockets of her apron,
gazed at him with a mischievous smile.
It was impossible not to smile back as he nibbled the crisp Mexican
cake and drank the old mission wine. And Susy's tongue trilled an
accompaniment to his thanks.
"Lord! it seems so nice to be here--just you and me, Clarence--like in
the old days--with nobody naggin' and swoopin' round after you.
Pages:
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76