"I wish there were any hope
of my becoming such a fine old buffer in my _decadence_,--it would be
worth living for if only to look at myself in the glass now and then. He
rather startled me when he threw down that knife, though. I suppose it
is some old Norwegian custom?"
"I suppose so," Errington answered, and then was silent, for at that
moment the door opened and the old farmer returned, followed by a girl
bearing a tray glittering with flasks of Italian wine, and long graceful
glasses shaped like round goblets, set on particularly slender stems.
The sight of the girl disappointed the eager visitors, for though she
was undeniably pretty, she was not Thelma. She was short and plump, with
rebellious nut-brown locks, that rippled about her face and from under
her close white cap with persistent untidiness. Her cheeks were as round
and red as lore-apples, and she had dancing blue eyes that appeared for
ever engaged in good-natured efforts to outsparkle each other. She wore
a spotless apron, lavishly trimmed with coquettish little starched
frills,--her hands were, unfortunately, rather large and coarse,--but
her smile, as she set down the tray and curtsied respectfully to the
young men, was charming, disclosing as it did, tiny teeth as even and
white as a double row of small pearls.
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