“You’re elegant enough for the two of us. Isn’t that something new?”
Gerty said carelessly that she had had it for a long time. For she had had the material a long time! It wasn’t necessary to explain to her husband’s sister that it had been made up that week. She hoped that she didn’t look “fussed-up.” Would Mr. Rickard think she was attaching any importance to the simple little visit? For it was nothing to him, of course. A man of his standing, whom the great Tod Marshall ranked so high, probably dined out several times each week, with white-capped maids and candelabra! If Tom had only made the most of his opportunities. What a gamble, life to a woman!
She made a trip into her bedroom and took a reassuring survey in her mirror. The lingerie frock would look simple to a man who would never suspect it of handmade duplicity. Her glass declared the hand-whipped medallions casual and elegant. And a long time ago, a lifetime ago, Rickard had told her that she always should wear blue, because of her eyes.
Innes from the next room could hear Gerty teasing Tom to wear his Tuxedo.
“Isn’t one dude enough for you?” growled her surly lord. Innes recognized the mood, and shrank from the ordeal ahead. It was the mood of the Hardin in the rough, the son of his frontier mother, the fruit of old Jasper Gingg, whose smithy had been the rendezvous for the wildest roughs, the fiercest cattlemen in Missouri.
“I’d let him see you know what’s what, even if we do live like gipsies.”
The answer to that was another growl. Innes could hear him dragging out the process, grumbling over each detail. That confounded laundry had torn his shirt. He hadn’t a decent collar to his name. Where was his black string tie? If Gert would keep his things in the lowest drawer! Hang that button! Gerty emerged from the encounter, her face very red. Innes could see her biting her lips to keep the tears back as she put the last touches to the table.
“She’s tired out,” thought the sister of Tom Hardin. “She’s probably fussed herself to death over this dinner.”
A few minutes later Rickard arrived in a sack suit of tweeds. Gerty’s greeting was a little abstracted. How could she make Innes understand to tell Tom to change his coat? The duty of a host, she suddenly remembered, was to dress down rather than up, to the chances of his guest. She regretted bitterly her insistence. Was ever any one so obtuse as Innes? Mr. Rickard would see that they thought it a big event. She was watching the curtain where Tom would emerge. And his coat was a style of several seasons ago and absurdly tight! She made an unintelligible excuse, and darted behind the portière.
Tom’s face was apoplectic. He was wrestling with a mussed tie; the collar showed a desperate struggle.