There were the twins, talking to Nell. There was Brederode, studying a map of the waterways; there was the L.C.P. teaching Tibe a trick which for days he had been mildly declining to learn; there were Phyllis and the Viking wrapt in each other in the seclusion of a corner. But where was Freule Menela?
I asked the question aloud, and self-consciously.
"She's gone," announced the lady who is not my aunt.
"Gone?" I echoed.
"Yes, home to The Hague. She had a telegram, and was obliged to leave at once, by the first train, instead of waiting to travel slowly with us."
"Oh!" said I; adding, hypocritically, "What a pity!"
The small and rather pretty mouth of the L.C.P. arched upward, so I suppose she smiled.
"Yes, isn't it?" said she.
Nobody else spoke, but I felt that the silence of Robert and the twins was more eloquent than words.
When I had overcome the first giddy rapture of returning life, and was sure that I was steady on my feet, I dared to dally with the subject. I asked if bad news had come for Freule Menela, expressed devout relief that it had not, and piped regret at being deprived of a farewell.