“It doesn’t, usually; but I had a telegram from Porter an hour ago; there’s to be a conference in the morning.”
They started toward the drawing-room. Amelia was pouting in her disappointment.
“I knew something would spoil it,” she said, fatalistically. And then she added, presently: “I thought that Monday afternoon sessions never lasted longer than a minute. You never went down before until Monday night.”
“I know, dear,” said Vernon, apologetically, “but now that the session is nearing its close, we’re busier than we have been.”
“Can’t you wire Mr. Porter and get him to let you off?” she asked.
Vernon laughed.
“He isn’t my master,” he replied.
“Well, he acts like it,” she retorted, and then as if she had suddenly hit upon an unanswerable argument she went on: “If that’s so why do you pay any attention to his telegram?”
“It isn’t he, dear,” Vernon explained, “it’s the party. We are to have a very important conference to consider a situation that has just arisen. I must not miss it.”
“Well, it ruins my dinner, that’s all,” she said, helplessly. “I wanted you here.”