Whitney Barnes’s lips merely framed: “No! You don’t mean it!”
He was going to add something more, when the two girls came on into the room diffidently and stood by the great carved table, close together, as if prepared to cling to one another in case something extraordinary happened. Travers Gladwin was the first of the two young men to come to their rescue.
“Pardon me! Did you wish to see me?” he said with his best bow.
“No,” replied Helen Burton quickly, her lips trembling; “we want to see Mr. Gladwin, please.”
The young man did not recover instantly from this staggering jolt, and a clock somewhere in the great hall nearby ticked a dozen strokes before he managed to mumble:
“Well––er––I am”––
“Isn’t he here?” broke in the brown-haired beauty, breathlessly. “His man just asked us to come into this room to see him.”
“What Mr. Gladwin did you want?” asked that young man incoherently.
“Why, Mr. Travers Gladwin!” exclaimed the girl indignantly, the color mantling to her forehead. “Is there more than one?”