She professed herself entranced with everything. And where had she got the idea of those darling shades? The green blotting-paper cut out stencil-wise in the design of water lilies, the white paper lining making the petals, was altogether charming and original. Would Mrs. Hardin mind if she copied them?
Mrs. Hardin’s answer was a little strained. “Of course, I do not mind.” Mrs. Youngberg decided to use pink and green when she made her copies; the white was a little insipid! She was taking keen note of the arrangement of the guests, of her husband’s name and Mrs. Hatfield’s, side by side.
“Is it all right?” inquired Mrs. Hardin, watching her face. “It’s the hardest thing to place people, I think.”
Not for the world would Mrs. Youngberg have suggested her annoyance. Every one put her husband next to Mrs. Hatfield. He did not like that incorrigible coquette! Every one knew by this time that rightfully she was a grandmother. Her divorced husband was in a remote background with the children and grandchildren. The second husband was a minus, negative enough to maintain the tie which Mrs. Hatfield’s coquetry must put under severe strain.
“Admirable,” said Mrs. Youngberg. She wondered if Mrs. Hardin knew that a wind was rising? She would not tell her. “Admirable,” she repeated.
Gerty’s eye casually observed every corner of the hall as the two women made their way out. She wanted to look at the register to see if Rickard’s name were there, but her self-consciousness withheld her. He might see her. Not until it was too late did she reflect that she might have announced a curiosity as to new arrivals. The street reached, she stared blankly at the wind-struck town; then at Mrs. Youngberg.
“Isn’t it a shame?” murmured her friend. “I hated to tell you.”
Ready to cry was Gerty. Even the wind sided against her party. It was blowing down the main street like a baby hurricane with the colic. Her hat was wrenched from its moorings.
“It’s not so bad as it used to be,” shrieked Mrs. Youngberg, clambering into the buggy. “Before the alfalfa was planted!”
The loungers had left the sidewalk. Up-stairs, the disheveled chambermaids were making the beds in the overhanging bird-cage. The street was deserted, save for the Cocopahs who flanked the door of Eggers’ store like bronze inscrutable sentinels. Two squaws came out to watch the progress of the wind-blown buggy. Their wide ruffled skirts were blown into balloons. Large colored handkerchiefs, sewn together into a cloak, bellied with the breeze. They watched the two white women incuriously, steadily. Mrs. Youngberg was hanging on to her Mexican sombrero with her left gauntleted hand. Gerty was grabbing her pretty sun hat with her tired fingers.