Never had Miss Elizabeth Thompson looked less like the ugly duckling of her freckled childhood. The renunciation of her Paris finery was more than compensated for by the sparkle of her eyes and the flush of self-victory in her cheeks. At the last minute, partly as a concession to her vanquished self, partly as a precaution against draughts, she had thrown round her shoulders a web of transparent net, sparkling with embroidered flowers, effecting in her plain black frock a transformation that would have done credit to Cinderella's fairy godmother herself.
Breathless and apologetic Betty joined the others just as the elevator doors opened and Bob's dignified greeting and his mother's make-believe chidings were quickly submerged in the mysterious hush that descends upon even the most loquacious people on entering an elevator.
A table had been reserved not too near the orchestra, and its highly decorated appearance, due to an over-liberal interpretation on the manager's part, of Bob's order for a centerpiece of roses and two bunches of gardenias, had created a speculative interest in the little party in advance of its arrival. In the language of the theater, it had "prepared an entrance."
As the three took their places (amid critical feminine and enthusiastic masculine stares at Betty, and critical masculine and enthusiastic feminine stares at Bob), Mrs. Baxter, who had, perhaps, the least to do with the attention they attracted, was the only one of the three who really enjoyed it. Betty felt a flush of annoyance, not so much at the attention itself—Paris had accustomed her to being stared at—but it was one thing to attract attention and quite another to bid for it, and that monstrous floral centerpiece, those unnecessarily large corsage bouquets, fairly clamored for notice. Her quick ear caught the words "Awful Americans"—"Nouveau Riche," in a high pitched feminine hiss close behind her, and at another table a monocled lout in faultless evening dress was saying in a bulky whisper, "Musical comedy, I fancy." Betty would like to have asked him to which branch of the peerage he referred, the Gaiety or the Alhambra. Anyway, she was thankful she had saved herself from the pink and silver Niagara.
As for Robert Baxter, concentrate as he would on the amiable duties of host, he could not forget his hurt—perhaps only a scratch to his vanity, perhaps something deeper. Whenever during that uncomfortable dinner he looked at the lovely girl sitting opposite and thought of the trick she had played him, he felt the hurt afresh. He recalled the first and only long talk he had had with "the secretary" at Ipping House. What fun she must have had with him!—and that letter—that fatuous letter! His face burned as he thought of it. But now the tables were turned. He had found out her secret and she did not know he knew. Now was his chance to pay her back. Bob smiled in spite of himself. It was so like one of their childhood fights, when Betty had a tremendous secret she wouldn't tell Bob, and Bob invented a more tremendous secret he wouldn't tell Betty. For a whole afternoon, perhaps, they would not be on speaking terms. Then there would come a crisis, followed by an explosion, and they would say terribly personal things to each other. Then all at once Betty's eyes would fill with tears and Bob would be seized with a strange sensation, as if he had suddenly become an entirely different boy and that other boy would put his arms around little Betty, and then, and then—yes, they would kiss and make friends.
Robert Baxter looked across the table. Betty looked up at the same instant, and for the fraction of a second their eyes became entangled, and for just that wonderful fraction of a second Robert Baxter felt the strange sensation of being the other boy. Only for an instant.
"No," he said to himself. "She's made a fool of me and she's got to be sorry for it. Now I have her just where she had me, and I'll make her sorry—very, very sorry."
Mrs. Baxter was pushing back her chair; she would have her coffee and her cigarette upstairs. Eleanor had never got used to the English lady's custom of smoking in public. If Bob would take her to the elevator he might return and have his cigar in comfort at the table. Perhaps Miss Thompson would show him the promenade.
Betty got up quickly.
"No, no, Miss Thompson, I sha'n't need you. I really sha'n't," Eleanor insisted. "I have my book, and I shall be asleep before I've read a page."