"My baby!"
"Moth-er!"
Cheek caressed cheek.
"She's six, isn't she, my dear?" asked the plain, elderly one.
"Oh, she's seven." A soft hand stroked the yellow hair.
"As much as that? Really?"
The inference was not lost upon Gwendolyn. She tightened her embrace. And turning her head on her mother's breast, looked frank resentment.
The visitors were not watching her. They were exchanging glances—and smiles, faint and uneasy. Slowly now they began to move toward the hall door, which stood open. Beside it, waiting with an impressive air, was Miss Royle.
"I think we must go, Louise."
"Oh, we must,"—quickly. "Dear me! I'd almost forgot! We've promised to lunch with one or two people down-town."