16
Mr. Henshawe passed his hand quickly over his smooth, iron-grey hair. “You gave away my six new shirts?”
“Be sure I did. You shan’t wear shirts that give you a bosom, not if we go to the poorhouse. You know I can’t bear you in ill-fitting things.”
Oswald looked at her with amusement, incredulity, and bitterness. He turned away from us with a shrug and pulled up a chair. “Well, all I can say is, what a windfall for Willy!”
“That’s the way to look at it,” said his wife teasingly. “And now try to talk about something that might conceivably interest Lydia’s niece. I promised Liddy to make a salad dressing.”
I was left alone with Mr. Henshawe. He had a pleasant way of giving his whole attention to a young person. He “drew one out” better than his wife had done, because he did not frighten one so much. I liked to watch his face, with its outstanding bones and languid, friendly eyes—that perplexing combination of something hard and
