Down-stairs Gertrude and Marcia have had a small skirmish of words.
"So he isn't married," the former had said, triumphantly.
"But engaged, no doubt. He wouldn't bring her here if there was not something in it."
"I would never forgive her for throwing me over," declares Gertrude.
"But it is something to have been a countess, and she is wonderfully handsome, not a bit fagged out by a sea voyage. Why, she doesn't look much older than Laura. Women of that kind always carry all before them, and men forgive everything to them."
"Floyd doesn't look like a marrying man."
"Much you know about it!" says Marcia, contemptuously. Then hearing her mother's steps, she rejoins her in the long dining-room, where the meal is being prepared in a style that befits the handsome mansion. The table is elegant with plate, cut glass, and china. Mrs. Grandon is lighter of heart now that she knows she is not to be deposed immediately. If the child only were a boy there would be no need of Floyd marrying, and it vexes her.
Laura returns in high good-humor, having done her errand quite to her satisfaction. The bell rings and they gather slowly. Madame Lepelletier is more enchanting still in some soft black fabric, with dull gold in relief. Floyd has washed and brushed and freshened, but still wears his travelling suit for a very good reason. Cecil is in white, with pale blue ribbons, which give her a sort of seraphic look. Yet she is tired with all the jaunting about, and after a while Laura ceases to torment her with questions, as the conversation becomes more general.
While the dessert is being brought in, Cecil touches her father's arm gently.
"I am so sleepy," in the lowest of low tones. Indeed, she can hardly keep her lovely eyes open.