To Gwendolyn the announcement was unexpected. But she was quick. Very cautiously she lifted herself on her toes—just a little.
Another buzz of comment circled the board. "Too sweet!" said one; and, "Cunning!" and "Fine child, that!"
"Now, dear," encouraged her mother.
Gwendolyn would have liked to stand still and listen to the chorus of praise. But there was something else to do.
She turned a corner of the table and started slowly along it, curtseying at each chair. As she curtsied she said nothing, only bobbed the satin bow and put out a small hand. And, "How do you do, darling!" said the ladies, and "Ah, little Miss Gwendolyn!" said the men.
The last man on that side, however, said something different. (He, she had seen at the dinner-table often.) He slipped a hand into a pocket. When it came forth, it held an oblong box. "I didn't forget that this was your birthday," he half-whispered. "Here!"—as he laid the box upon Gwendolyn's pink palm—"that's for your sweet tooth!"
Everyone was watching, the ladies beaming, the men intent and amused. But Gwendolyn was unaware both of the silence and the scrutiny. She glanced at the box. Then she looked up into the friendly eyes of the donor.
"But," she began; "—but which is my sweet tooth?"
There was a burst of laughter, Gwendolyn's father and mother joining in. The man who had presented the box laughed heartiest of all; then rose.
First he bowed to her mother, who acknowledged his salute graciously; next he turned to her father, whose pale face softened; last of all, he addressed her: