"Yes," replied Theo promptly; "at Santa Barbara. He was motoring with Mrs. May. I thought him one of the handsomest men I ever saw. But I'm afraid he isn't coming. She isn't either—of course."
Carmen's face crimsoned; then her colour died away and left her sickly white, all but the little pink spots of rouge she had put on in the morning.
"Motoring with Mrs. May!" she repeated, harshly, then controlled her voice by a violent effort. "Was Mrs. May expected here?"
"Was expected," Theo echoed with emphasis. She was enjoying herself thoroughly; literally enjoying "herself." This was almost as good as if Hilliard had not refused the invitation and Angela had not basely slipped out of the engagement after practically accepting. "She won't come. I suppose she thinks she's having more fun where she is. Though if Mr. Hilliard had come I haven't the ghost of a doubt that she would. Do you know Mr. Hilliard well?"
This in a tone as innocent as that of a little child talking of its dolls.
"Pretty well," answered Carmen, moistening her lips. "Who is Mrs. May? I heard of her once. She's a friend of the Morehouses."
"She's a new importation," replied Theo lightly. "So far as I can make out, she and Mr. Hilliard met in New York."
"Is she—pretty?"
"Yes, very. Fair hair and gray eyes that look dark. Mourning is becoming to her."
"Is she a widow?"