ner.

Marcia would have given a good deal to slip in beside David on the sofa
and listen to the discussion. She wanted with all her heart to know how he
would answer this man who could be so insufferably wise, but there was
other work for her, and her attention was brought back to her own
uncomfortable part by Hannah Heath's voice:

"Come right ovah heah, Mistah Skinnah, if you want to meet the bride. You
must speak verra nice to me or I sha'n't introduce you at all."

A tall lanky man with stiff sandy hair and a rubicund complexion was
making his way around the room. He had a small mouth puckered a little as
if he might be going to whistle, and his chin had the look of having been
pushed back out of the way, a stiff fuzz of sandy whiskers made a hedge
down either cheek, and but for that he was clean shaven. The skin over his
high cheek bones was stretched smooth and tight as if it were a trifle too
close a fit for the genial cushion beneath. He did not look brilliant, and
he certainly was not handsome, but there was an inoffensive desire to
please about him. He was introduced as Mr. Lemuel Skinner. He bowed low
over Marcia's hand, said a few embarrassed, stiff sentences and turned to
Hannah Heath with relief. It was evident that Hannah was in his eyes a
great and shining light, to which he fluttered as naturally as does the
moth to the candle. But Hannah did not scruple to singe his wings whenever
she chose. Perhaps she knew, no matter how badly he was burned he would
only flutter back again whenever she scintillated. She had turned her back
upon him now, and left him to Marcia's tender mercies. Hannah was engaged
in talking to a younger man. "Harry Temple, from New York," Lemuel
explained to Marcia.

The young man, Harry Temple, had large lazy eyes and heavy dark hair.
There was a discontented look in his face, and a looseness about the set
of his lips that Marcia did not like, although she had to admit that he
was handsome. Something about him reminded her of Captain Leavenworth, and
she instinctively shrank from him. But Harry Temple had no mind to talk to
any one but Marcia that evening, and he presently so managed it that he
and she were ensconced in a corner of the room away from others. Marcia
felt perturbed. She did not feel flattered by the man's attentions, and
she wanted to be at the other end of the room listening to the
conversation.

She listened as intently as she might between sentences, and her kee