me,” said Anne. “He follows me round like a dog, and smiles like a pleased child when I notice him.”
“Does it make you creepy?”
“Not at all. I rather like poor Dick Moore. He seems so pitiful and appealing, somehow.”
“You wouldn’t think him very appealing if you’d see him on his cantankerous days, believe me. But I’m glad you don’t mind him—it’s all the nicer for Leslie. She’ll have more to do when her boarder comes. I hope he’ll be a decent creature. You’ll probably like him—he’s a writer.”
“I wonder why people so commonly suppose that if two individuals are both writers they must therefore be hugely congenial,” said Anne, rather scornfully. “Nobody would expect two blacksmiths to be violently attracted toward each other merely because they were both blacksmiths.”
Nevertheless, she looked forward to the advent of Owen Ford with a pleasant sense of expectation. If he were young and likeable he might prove a very pleasant addition to society in Four Winds. The latch-string of the little house was always out for the race of Joseph.
