Billy, at her end of the wires, hung up the receiver and backed against the wall a little palpitatingly.
Calderwell! To dinner—Calderwell! Did she remember Calderwell? Did she, indeed! As if one could easily forget the man that, for a year or two, had proposed marriage as regularly (and almost as lightly!) as he had torn a monthly leaf from his calendar! Besides, was it not he, too, who had said that Bertram would never love any girl, really; that it would be only the tilt of her chin or the turn of her head that he loved—to paint? And now he was coming to dinner—and with Bertram.
Very well, he should see! He should see that Bertram did love her; her—not the tilt of her chin nor the turn of her head. He should see how happy they were, what a good wife she made, and how devoted and satisfied Bertram was in his home. He should see! And forthwith Billy picked up her skirts and tripped up-stairs to select her very prettiest house-gown to do honor to the occasion. Up-stairs, however, one thing and another delayed her, so that it was four o'clock when she turned her attention to her toilet; and it was while she was hesitating whether to be stately and impressive in royally sumptuous blue velvet and ermine, or cozy and tantalizingly homy{sic} in bronze-gold crêpe de Chine and swan's-down, that the telephone bell rang again.
Eliza and Pete had not yet returned; so, as before, Billy answered it. This time Eliza's shaking voice came to her.
“Is that you, ma'am?”
“Why, yes, Eliza?”
“Yes'm, it's me, ma'am. It's about Uncle Pete. He's give us a turn that's 'most scared us out of our wits.”
“Pete! You mean he's sick?”
“Yes, ma'am, he was. That is, he is, too—only he's better, now, thank goodness,” panted Eliza. “But he ain't hisself yet. He's that white and shaky! Would you—could you—that is, would you mind if we didn't come back till into the evenin', maybe?”
“Why, of course not,” cried Pete's mistress, quickly. “Don't come a minute before he's able, Eliza. Don't come until to-morrow.”