Little Eve Edgarton
CHAPTER I "But you live like such a fool--of course you're bored!" drawled the Older Man, rummaging listlessly through his pockets for the ever-elusive match. "Well, I like your nerve!" protested the Younger Man with unmistakable asperity. "Do you--really?" mocked the Older Man, still smiling very faintly. For a few minutes then both men resumed their cigars, staring blinkishly out all the while from their dark green piazza corner into the dazzling white tennis courts that gleamed like so many slippery pine planks in the afternoon glare and heat. The month was August, the day typically handsome, typically vivid, typically caloric. It was the Younger Man who recovered his conversational interest first. "So you think I'm a fool?" he resumed at last quite abruptly.
not forgotten him, Meg longed to walk in the conservatory, Beth
sighed for the grand piano, and Amy was eager to see the fine
pictures and statues.
"Mother, why didn't Mr. Laurence like to have Laurie play?"
asked Jo, who was of an inquiring disposition.
"I am not sure, but I think it was because his son, Laurie's
father, married an Italian lady, a musician, which displeased the
old man, who is very proud. The lady was good and lovely and
accomplished, but he did not like her, and never saw his son after
he married. They both died when Laurie was a little child, and
then his grandfather took him home. I fancy the boy, who was born
in Italy, is not very strong, and the old man is afraid of losing
him, which makes him so careful. Laurie comes naturally by his
love of music, for he is like his mother, and I dare say his
grandfather fears that he may want to be a musician. At any rate,
his skill reminds him of the woman he did not like, and so he
'glowered' as Jo said."
"Dear me, how romantic!" exclaimed Meg.
"How silly!" said Jo. "Let him be a musician if he wants to,
and not plague his life out sending him to college, when he hates
to go."
CHAPTER I "But you live like such a fool--of course you're bored!" drawled the Older Man, rummaging listlessly through his pockets for the ever-elusive match. "Well, I like your nerve!" protested the Younger Man with unmistakable asperity. "Do you--really?" mocked the Older Man, still smiling very faintly. For a few minutes then both men resumed their cigars, staring blinkishly out all the while from their dark green piazza corner into the dazzling white tennis courts that gleamed like so many slippery pine planks in the afternoon glare and heat. The month was August, the day typically handsome, typically vivid, typically caloric. It was the Younger Man who recovered his conversational interest first. "So you think I'm a fool?" he resumed at last quite abruptly.