She looked up, drew back, uttered a little cry. For a moment she was silencing herself, saying to herself: “I must be calm. I must keep a hold on myself.... I can’t have a scene here.” Then she arose, smiled brightly a spurious smile, and extended her hand. “Why, Mr. Waite, this is such a surprise!” She turned to her companion. “This is Mr. Waite, from Detroit, Mrs. Roscombe. Mrs. Roscombe and I have worked up here by degrees from Palm Beach. Our last stop was Pinehurst. Such golfing! You’ve been to Pinehurst, of course.” She was talking rapidly, saying anything that came into her head until she could gain full possession of herself.
Mrs. Roscombe stared, then gave Potter her hand. “Of the Waite Motor Company?” she asked.
He nodded.
“What brings you here?” Hildegarde said, fearing a pause. “Oh, to be sure! I know. It’s your motor, isn’t it? How is it getting along? Sit down and tell us all about it.... You haven’t lunched, have you?”
“No,” he said, tonelessly, wondering how she could seem so happy, be so trivial, with that black thing crouching behind her. He was young....
“Sit down, then, and tell me all about Detroit—and everybody. Who’s married whom?...”
“I haven’t seen you for months,” he said, baldly, and Mrs. Roscombe smiled faintly. She had perceived something of the tenseness of the moment and had wondered at it. Now she fancied she knew. She imagined some lover’s misunderstanding, and, dowager-like, saw herself in the beneficent rôle of peace-maker and match-maker. Why not? The son of the Waite Motor Company was a catch worth angling for.
“Do sit down, Mr. Waite,” she said, and motioned to a chair.
He complied stiffly, like a man functioning in his sleep.
“You—you look just the same,” he said.