Before the knife descended, Genevieve caught her hand.
"Wait! Look here," she parleyed. Taking the knife, she thrust its point through the elaborate white frosting, with two or three gentle taps.
"Why, it's hard!—hard as stone," ejaculated Tilly, trying for herself.
"It is stone," laughed Genevieve.
"Stone!" cried a chorus of unbelieving voices.
"Yes, stone—frosted with sugar and the whites of eggs. Oh, if you'd lived in Texas as long as I have you'd have seen them before," nodded Genevieve.
"Well, I've got my opinion of Texas cakes, then," pouted Tilly, with saucy impertinence.
"Oh, you'll change it later, I reckon—when you see the real ones," rejoined Genevieve, comfortably, as they left the dining-room.
There never had been, surely, such a party. All the Happy Hexagons agreed to that. So, too, did all the guests. Perhaps on no one's face was there a look of anxious care except on Cordelia's. Possibly Mr. Hartley noticed this look. At all events he watched Cordelia rather closely, as the evening advanced, particularly after he chanced to overhear some of her remarks to his guests. Then he sought his daughter.
"Dearie," he began in a low voice, leading her a little to one side, "what in the world ails that little Miss Cordelia?"