Sir Redmond's teeth went together with a click, and he picked up the pepper shaker mechanically and peppered his salad until it was perfectly black, and Beatrice wondered how he ever expected to eat it. Mrs. Lansell dropped her fork on the floor, and had to have a clean one brought. Miss Hayes sent a frightened glance at her brother. Dick sat and ate fried chicken.
“Why, Be'trice? I wants you to—and de puppies'll need you—and auntie, and—” Dorman gathered himself for the last, crushing argument—“and Uncle Redmon' wants you awf'lly!”
Beatrice took a sip of ice water, for she needed it.
“Why, Be'trice? Gran-mama'll let you go, guess. Can't she go, gran'mama?”
It was Mrs. Lansell's turn to test the exquisite torture of that prickly chill along the spine. Like Beatrice, she dodged.
“Little boys,” she announced weakly, “should not speak until they're spoken to.”
Dick came near strangling on a shred of chicken.
“Can't she go, gran'mama? Say, can't she? Tell Be'trice to go home wis us, gran'mama!”
“Beatrice”—Mrs. Lansell swallowed—“is not a little child any longer, Dorman. She is a woman and can do as she likes. I”—she was speaking to the whole group—“I can only advise her.”
Dorman gave a squeal of triumph. “See? You can go, Be'trice! Gran'mama says you can go. You will go, won't you, Be'trice? Say yes!”