Sincerely, Willis Wayde Read Free Page A

there they turned down the back drive past the greenhouse and past the stable yard, and for the first time Patrick spoke.
    â€œThis is the big house,” he said, “and down there is the road to Mr. Bryson’s house.”
    â€œSay,” Willis said, “does Mr. Harcourt live there all alone?”
    â€œHe does,” Patrick said.
    â€œGee,” Willis said, “I don’t see what he does in it.”
    â€œThat’s his business,” Patrick said.
    â€œI only mean it’s so big,” Willis said, “with all those other buildings and everything.”
    Patrick did not answer. The back drive had brought them past the kitchen garden, and Willis saw the garden house just at the edge of a grove of oaks.
    â€œYou get off here,” Patrick said.
    â€œGee,” Willis said, “is this where we’re going to live?”
    Patrick did not answer, but he jumped out of the Locomobile more smartly than he had at the station and opened the door formally for Mr. and Mrs. Wayde.
    â€œThat’s all right, Pat,” Alfred Wayde said. “Willis and I can handle the bags.”
    â€œMr. Harcourt told me to tell you, Madam,” Patrick said, “that if there is anything you need, to call Mr. Beane on the house telephone. Selwyn has left some groceries to get you started, Madam, and MacDonald has brought a few vegetables.”
    â€œThat’s very kind of Mr. Harcourt,” Mrs. Wayde said. “Everything looks lovely, and if we want anything Mr. Wayde can get it in his Ford.”
    It was the first time that Willis had heard that his father had a car, but now he saw a Ford runabout standing in a small shed beneath the trees.
    â€œWell, if that’s all then,” Patrick said.
    â€œYes, that’s all,” Mr. Wayde said. “Thanks, Pat.”
    â€œOh, just a minute,” Mrs. Wayde said, and she lowered her voice. “Alfred.”
    â€œOh, yes,” Mr. Wayde said, and he pulled a bill out of his trousers pocket.
    â€œThat isn’t necessary, sir,” Patrick said, and Willis saw his glance fall, unintentionally perhaps, upon the straw suitcases.
    â€œAll the more reason to take it,” Mr. Wayde said.
    â€œWell, thanks,” Patrick said. “Remember, if you want anything, Madam, call up Mr. Beane on the house telephone.”
    All three of them stood for a moment on the path looking at the garden house. It was a small two-story replica of the big house, built of stone in the same Gothic style with leaded casement windows, and there was a flower bed filled with deep-purple petunias on either side of the front door.
    â€œWhy, Alfred,” Mrs. Wayde said, “it’s like a picture. Is it furnished?”
    His father stood with his hands in his trousers pockets.
    â€œYou come inside, Cynthia,” he said. “We’ve got a real place for once. There’s sheets, blankets, china, and everything.”
    Willis felt there must be some catch to it when they came into the small front entry with its flight of carpeted stairs and figured wallpaper. On the right was a sitting room with a big fireplace, all furnished with easy chairs, pictures, lamps, and everything. There was a big dining room on the left with a dark-oak gate-leg table and Windsor chairs, and there was a kitchen ell with a fire in the stove and a table covered with groceries and vegetables.
    â€œDo you like it, Cynthia?” his father asked.
    â€œOf course I like it, Alfred,” she answered, “only I can’t believe it.”
    There were two bedrooms upstairs, with curtains of shiny chintz, and there was even a chaise longue in one of them—a word that Willis learned later. His mother looked at it all doubtfully, as though she still could not believe it.
    â€œWhat’s the rent on it, Alfred?” she asked.
    The corners of his father’s wide mouth tightened.
    â€œTwenty-five dollars,” he said.
    â€œWell, maybe