"Oh, isn't it a pity? There's such a pretty picture of——"
"Oh, don't bother."
Mrs. Wyburn was gracious to-day, and all was going well when, about half-past five, a telegram, reply paid, was brought. It was addressed to Harry.
"What shall we do?"
"Why, keep it till he comes. He'll be back to dinner," Romer said.
"Suppose it's something urgent," said Val, seeming a little agitated. "Don't you think perhaps we ought to open it? He won't mind."
"You can't. It's addressed to Harry," said Romer.
Mrs. Wyburn's quick eyes took in some signs of tension, but she continued giving them advice about the garden. She thought the flowers too florid, and was always a little shocked at the extravagant scent and exuberance of the roses. She seemed to think they should be kept more in their place—not allowed to climb all over the house, and romp or lean about the garden doing just what they liked. She had winced in the drawing-room, relented in the dining-room, and refrained, really, only in the kitchen, that she had insisted upon seeing. It was the only room to the decoration of which she gave whole-hearted praise and approval. The cooking at the Green Gate she admitted to be perfect, without pretension. In fact, she thought everything in the house a little overdone, except the mutton.
"I can't think who that wire can be from," Val said several times to Daphne when her mother-in-law had gone. She meant that she could think.
"Well, you'll know directly. Harry's arriving."