In another minute Mr.Harold Hartshorn had walked away, and Father had turned back on to the piazza.
As soon as I could control my shaking knees, I went downstairs.
Father was in his favorite rocking-chair.

I advanced slowly.

I did not sit down.
"Was that Mr.Hartshorn ?" I asked, trying to keep the shake out of my voice.
"Yes." "Mr.H-Hartshorn," I repeated stupidly.
"Yes.

He came to see me about the Downer place," nodded Father.

"He wants to rent it for next year." "To rent it--the Downer place!" (The Downer place was no rose-embowered cottage far from the madding crowd! Why, it was big, and brick, and _right next_ to the hotel! I didn't want to live there.) "Yes--for his wife and family.