“What, of poor little Henrietta’s!” cried Adelaide, and she laid her hand appealingly for an instant on Mrs. Baxter’s knee. “That’s a cruel thing to say. All her good things, you know, were sold years ago. Everything she has is a reproduction. Am I really like her?”
Getting out of this as best she could on a vague statement about atmosphere and sunshine and charm, Mrs. Baxter took refuge in inquiries about Vincent’s health, “your charming child,” and “your dear father.”
“You know more about my dear father than I do,” returned Adelaide, sweetly. It was Mrs. Baxter’s cue.
“I did not feel last evening that I knew anything about him at all. He is in a new phase, almost a new personality. Tell me, who is this Mrs. Wayne?”
“Mrs. Wayne?” Mrs. Baxter must have felt herself revenged by the complete surprise of Adelaide’s tone.
“Yes, she dined at the house last evening. Apparently it was to have been a tête-à-tête dinner, but my arrival changed it to a partie carrée.” She talked on about Wilsey and the conversation of the evening, but it made little difference what she said, for her full idea had reached Adelaide from the start, and had gathered to itself in an instant a hundred confirmatory memories. Like a picture, she saw before her Mrs. Wayne’s sitting-room, with the ink-spots on the rug. Who would not wish to exchange that for Mr. Lanley’s series of fresh, beautiful rooms? Suddenly she gave her attention back to Mrs. Baxter, who was saying:
“I assure you, when we were alone I was prepared for a formal announcement.”
It was not safe to be the bearer of ill tidings to Adelaide.
“An announcement?” she said wonderingly. “Oh, no, Mrs. Baxter, my father will never marry again. There have always been rumors, and you can’t imagine how he and I have laughed over them together.”
As the indisputable subject of such rumors in past times, Mrs. Baxter fitted a little arrow in her bow.