“This is Ruthie, Jeannette——” began Martin.
“How do you do?” said Ruthie, hurrying forward, leaving no doubt of her cordiality. “It was very nice of you to come to us to-night.”
“Not at all,” Jeannette responded with her best smile. “It was nice of you to want me.”
“I was anxious to know you,” said Ruthie.
She could afford to be gracious thought Jeannette. She had everything: the home, the children, money, position,—she had Martin! ... Was it possible they were really married? Or did Ruthie merely think she was his wife?
Jeannette was piloted upstairs to a large, pleasant bedroom. The chairs, the tables, the bureau and chiffonier, the twin beds were all of bright bird’s-eye maple; rose hangings were at the windows, rose silk comforters were neatly folded at the foot of each bed, rose shades on the wall lights diffused a soft rosy radiance. The dressing-table glittered with silver toilet articles, and Jeannette noticed they were all monogramed “R.T.D.” Flanking them were large silver-framed photographs, one of Martin,—a handsome, fierce-looking Martin in evening dress,—the other of the two children, Tinker with her arm about her brother. Domesticity radiated everywhere.
“I never looked better,” Jeannette thought consolingly as she caught a full-length reflection of herself in the long mirror impanelled in the bathroom door. Her hair pleased her; her high color was most becoming; she knew herself to be beautiful. She went downstairs, serene and confident, sure of being able to carry off the evening with lightness and ease.
“I thought it would be quieter and perhaps a little pleasanter without the children at table,” said Ruthie brightly as Jeannette joined her, “so I arranged to give them an early supper, and now Martin’s been scolding me. He thinks you’ll be disappointed.”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” Jeannette murmured.
“Martin’s almost unreasonable about them; he wants them all the time,” continued Ruthie. “I tell him if he had them on his hands all day, perhaps he wouldn’t be quite so enthusiastic!” She laughed an amused little laugh like the twittering of a bird. “He couldn’t be fonder of them if they were his own,” she added.