Mrs. Pantin’s eyes had all the warm friendliness of two blue china knobs and her thin lips were closed until her mouth looked merely a vivid scratch. Yet, somehow, the boy managed to say with his manner of deferential courtesy:
“Mrs. Pantin, do you know Miss Prentice?”
Ordinarily, a part of Mrs. Pantin’s society manner was a vivacious chirp, but now she said coldly between her teeth:
“I haven’t that pleasure.” She gave Kate her extreme finger tips with such obvious reluctance that the action was an affront.
Disston glanced at Mrs. Sudds in the hope of finding friendliness. That lady had drawn herself up like an outraged tragedy queen. No one would have dreamed, seeing Mrs. Sudds at the moment with her air of royal hauteur, that in bygone days she had had her own troubles making twelve dollars a week as a stenographer.
His glance passed on to Mrs. Neifkins, who was picking at a French knot in a spasm of nervousness lest Kate betray the fact that they had met.
Disston was aware that Mrs. Neifkins knew Kate and his lip curled at her cowardice. He raised his head haughtily; he would not subject his partner to further rebuffs.
“Come on, Katie,” he said, curtly, and they passed into the dining room.
The girl’s cheeks were flaming as they sat down on the chairs ranged against the wall.
“Hughie,” her fingers were like ice as she clasped them together in her lap. “What’s the matter? Do I look—queer?”