Mrs. Bruce moved to her place. “Betsy hasn’t been with me,” she said.
“She hasn’t? The poor dear must be ill then,” said Irving with concern. “Alice says she hasn’t been downstairs. Go up, will you,” he continued to the cook who was just leaving the room, “please go up to Betsy’s room and see what is the matter.”
The three seated themselves, and Mrs. Bruce’s dainty hands grew busy with the coffee percolator. Irving’s furtive glances assured him that there had been a storm. Discretion suggested that no reference be made to last evening. Fearing therefore that Nixie might err in that line, he hastened to speak.
“We’ve a great plan on for to-day, Madama,” he began, “and you’re in it.”
“That is certainly surprising,” rejoined the lady.
“We tried to find you at the inn to tell you about it last night,” said Nixie with insistent cheer, “but you were so exclusive, nobody knew where you were, and at last we found you had come home.”
Mrs. Bruce’s lips compressed firmly and her eyes could not lift above the percolator.
Irving stepped warningly on his friend’s foot under the table. At this juncture Alice returned. She seemed to be laboring under some excitement which made her forget her previous embarrassment in the unfamiliar region of the dining-room.
“Betsy isn’t there,” she said.
“Queer,” remarked Irving, without looking up from the egg he was breaking.