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130 where he seemed quite as much at home as that lady herself. The hostess, after chatting cordially with the visitors for a few moments, excused herself to go to a P. E. O. meeting. Every one rose at her departure, and Mr. Weldon approached Enid, took her hand, and stood looking at her with his head inclined and his oblique smile. “This is an unexpected pleasure, to see you again, Miss Enid. And you, too, Claude,” turning a little toward the latter. “You’ve come up from Frankfort together this beautiful day?” His tone seemed to say, “How lovely for you!”

He directed most of his remarks to Enid and, as always, avoided looking at Claude except when he definitely addressed him.

“You are farming this year, Claude? I presume that is a great satisfaction to your father. And Mrs. Wheeler is quite well?”

Mr. Weldon certainly bore no malice, but he always pronounced Claude’s name exactly like the word “Clod,” which annoyed him. To be sure, Enid pronounced his name in the same way, but either Claude did not notice this, or did not mind it from her. He sank into a deep, dark sofa, and sat with his driving cap on his knee while Brother Weldon drew a chair up to the one open window of the dusky room and began to read Carrie Royce’s letters. Without being asked to do so, he read them aloud, and stopped to comment from time to time. Claude observed with disappointment that Enid drank in all his platitudes just as Mrs. Wheeler did. He had never looked at Weldon so long before. The light fell full on the young man’s pear-shaped head and his thin, rippled hair. What in the world could sensible women like his mother and Enid Royce find to admire in this purring, white-necktied