William halted fiercely.
“What's the matter?” he demanded. “Is my face dirty?”
“You mean, are it too dirty to go in yonduh to the party?” Adelia asked, slowly. “No, suh; you look all right to go in there. You lookin' jes' fine to go in there now, Mist' Willie!”
Something in her tone struck him as peculiar, even as ominous, but his blood was up—he would not turn back now. He strode into the hall and opened the door of the “living-room.”
Jane was sitting on the floor, busily painting sunsets in a large blank-book which she had obtained for that exclusive purpose.
She looked up brightly as William appeared in the doorway, and in answer to his wild gaze she said:
“I got a little bit sick, so mamma told me to keep quiet a while. She's lookin' for you all over the house. She told papa she don't know what in mercy's name people are goin' to think about you, Willie.”
The distraught youth strode to her. “The party—” he choked. “WHERE—”
“They all stayed pretty long,” said Jane, “but the last ones said they had to go home to their dinners when papa came, a little while ago. Johnnie Watson was carryin' Flopit for that Miss Pratt.”
William dropped into the chair beside which Jane had established herself upon the floor. Then he uttered a terrible cry and rose.