The silver basket gave a touch of splendor that really made
the table seem as if its proper situation was a grand London
restaurant or a nobleman's mansion.
"You want to spoil me, Norah," said Dale, watching her. Then he
laughed. "But, my dear, all these pretty trickings and ornamentations
are fairly wasted on me."
"No, they aren't," said Norah, breathing hard, seeming to purr with
pleasure. "They can't be wasted, if you've noticed them, Mr. Dale;"
and as she lifted her head, she shook back the dark curling hair from
her forehead. "P'raps they'd be wasted if you didn't know they were
there."
"Oh, we rough old chaps don't require such prettiness about them."
Norah displayed her small white teeth in a broadening smile; then she
looked at the revered master thoughtfully.
"Why do you say you're _old_? You aren't really old, Mr. Dale."
"Oh, aren't I? I wonder what you call old, lassie."
"I call father old, and Mr. Bates--and Mrs. Goudie."
"Well, I mayn't be as old as them--as they; but I think I'm like the
walnut tree out there. I still stand up straight, but I fear me I've
seen my best days.... There! What are you up to now?"
She was lugging and pushing the great porter's chair from its corner.
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