Marjorie’s protesting shake of her head was too late.
“Noticed what?” asked her father curiously. His glance wandered about the room.
“You’ve been talking so incessantly,” Elinor blurted forth like a spoiled child, “you haven’t noticed mother.”
Hugh glanced across at Marjorie. “Why, you have your hair fixed differently, haven’t you, Marjorie?” he inquired, with careless indifference. “It is quite becoming.” He returned to his carving.
A solemn and awful hush pervaded the atmosphere. Howard, with diplomacy worthy of an older man, came to the rescue, and broke the tension by beginning to discuss the political affairs of the day.
Hugh Benton pushed his mousse away from him impatiently.
“No fripperies for me to-night, thank you,” he said. “I’m going to finish off with a cigar. No, son,” he added with uplifted hand to stay him as Howard started to rise to accompany him. “Stay and finish your dinner.”
Howard subsided into his seat, as his father stalked out.
In Marjorie Benton’s eyes two tears glittered that she tried to force back, but it was a tremulous laugh she gave as she remarked wryly:
“Old hens don’t wear chicken plumage very successfully, do they, my dears?”