“Oh, no; I believe there was some mistake about dates. Her mother telephoned her that she was expected at the Stepleys, at Fishkill, and she had to be rushed over to Albany to catch a train.”
Mrs. Lidcote meditated. “I’m sorry. She’s a charming young thing. I hoped I should have another talk with her this evening after dinner.”
“Yes; it’s too bad.” Miss Suffern’s gaze grew vague.
“You do look tired, you know,” she continued, seating herself at the tea-table and preparing to dispense its delicacies. “You must go straight back to your sofa and let me wait on you. The excitement has told on you more than you think, and you mustn’t fight against it any longer. Just stay quietly up here and let yourself go. You’ll have Leila to yourself on Monday.”
Mrs. Lidcote received the tea-cup which her cousin proffered, but showed no other disposition to obey her injunctions. For a moment she stirred her tea in silence; then she asked: “Is it your idea that I should stay quietly up here till Monday?”
Miss Suffern set down her cup with a gesture so sudden that it endangered an adjacent plate of scones. When she had assured herself of the safety of the scones she looked up with a fluttered laugh. “Perhaps, dear, by to-morrow you’ll be feeling differently. The air here, you know—”
“Yes, I know.” Mrs. Lidcote bent forward to help herself to a scone. “Who’s arriving this evening?” she asked.
Miss Suffern frowned and peered. “You know my wretched head for names. Leila told me—but there are so many—”
“So many? She didn’t tell me she expected a big party.”
“Oh, not big: but rather outside of her little group. And of course, as it’s the first time, she’s a little excited at having the older set.”