They turned on Lydia with reproaches. “Here you’ve been back two months and we haven’t got a bit of good out of you. Think of your having known that, all this—”
“Her mother’s sick, you know,” Madeleine Hollister explained.
“She hasn’t been so sick but what Lydia could get out to go buggy-riding with your brother Paul ever since he got back this last time.”
Lydia, as though she wished to lose herself, had been entering with a feverish intensity into the spirit of their lively chatter; but now, instead of responding with some prompt, defensive flippancy, she colored high and was silent. A clock above them struck five. “Oh, I must get on,” she cried; “I’m down here, you know, to walk home with Father.”
They laughed loudly, “Oh, yes, we know all about this sudden enthusiasm for Poppa’s society. Where are you going to meet Paul?”
Lydia looked about at the crush of drays, trolley-cars, and delivery-wagons jamming the busy street, “Well, not here down-town,” she replied, her tone one of satisfied security.
A confused and conscious stir among her companions and a burst of talk from them cut her short. They cried variously, according to their temperaments, “Oh, there he comes now!” “I think it’s mean Lydia’s gobbling him up from under our noses!” “I used to have a ride or two behind that gray while Lydia was away!” “My! Isn’t he a good-looker!”
They had all turned like needles to the north, and stared as the spider-light wagon, glistening with varnish, bore down on them, looking singularly distinguished and costly among the dingy business-vehicles which made up the traffic of the crowded street. The young driver guided the high-stepping gray with a reckless, competent hand through the most incredibly narrow openings and sent his vehicle up against the flower-like group of girls, laughing as he drew rein, at the open, humorous outcry against him. A chorus of eager recrimination rose to his ears, “Now, Mr. Hollister, this is the first time Lydia’s been out with our crowd since she came home!” “You might let her alone!” “Go away, Paul, you greedy thing!” “I haven’t asked Lydia a single thing about her European trip!”
“Well, maybe you think,” he cried, springing out to the sidewalk, “that I’ve been spending the last year traveling around Europe with Lydia! I haven’t heard any more than you have.” He threw aside the lap-robe of supple broadcloth, and offered his hand to Lydia. A flash of resentment at the cool silence of this invitation sprang up in the girl’s eyes. There was in her face a despairing effort at mutiny. Her hands nervously opened and shut the clasp of the furs at her throat. She tried to look unconscious, to look like the other girls, to laugh, not to know his meaning, to turn away.
The young man plunged straight through these pitiful cobwebs. “Why, come on, Lydia,” he cried with a good-humored pointedness, “I’ve been all over town looking for you.” She backed away, looking over her shoulder, as if for a lane of escape, flushing, paling. “Oh, no, no thank you, Paul. Not this afternoon!” she cried imploringly, with a soft fury of protest, “I’m on my way to Father’s office. I want to walk home with him. I want to see him. I thought it would be nice to walk home with him. I see so little of him! I thought it would be nice to walk home with him.” She was repeating herself, stammering and uncertain, but achieving nevertheless a steady retreat from the confident figure standing by the wagon.