of the earth. That was the way she wrote. Why, it was embarrassing. Such things ought not be said on paper, if, in fact, they ought to be said at all. There used to be such a thing as reserve in women, but David guessed it had gone out of style.
The fellow himself seemed sensible enough. David had dreaded his arrival horribly; supposed he would turn out to be the usual whippersnapper type of young man, the kind Mr. Horween was always digging up from the city and putting in charge of various departments at the factory—glib, smart-talking young fellows—gas-bags, David called them. But Reba's young man hadn't proved to be a gas-bag. Seemed, on the other hand, a modest, quiet-spoken young fellow. David's chief objection to him was his uniform. "Don't see why he has to dress up in all his fine feathers 'round here for," he had complained secretly to Syringa.
As Nathan came down the stairs now, David called up to him briefly, "Hurry up. We haven't got any more than time to make it," and then went out to start his engine.
Nathan had been a member of the Jerome household only a little over a week. But he had walked straight into the hearts of every woman in it. Nathan, with his instinctive tenderness toward all women, had a way of walking into their hearts. He had been as gentle, as chivalrous in speech and manner, to the various women in this austere New England family as to the warm-hearted little Mrs. Barton. Now, swinging his overcoat over his arm first, he turned to say good-by to the members of Rebecca's family, one by one, giving them each some little special word or
