"It's Mother," she explained, "She has just come home, and I haven't seen her for three days. If I am not there to pet her and make a fuss over her, she will miss me, and worry.—No," she corrected herself, "Mother never worries, but she'll wonder. I must go."
"There's to be a rum cake," murmured Channing, craftily. "And—do you like champagne?"
Jacqueline's eyes sparkled. "I've never tasted it, or rum cake either. I would like to—" her eyes wandered wistfully toward the dining-room. "Suppose I telephone and ask Mother whether she'd mind?"
"If you do that, she's sure to mind. Mothers always do. Besides, think of the firm sister. Do you suppose she'll consent to your dining in a strange actor's house? Never!"
Jacqueline tossed her head. "It's none of Jemmy's business. She's only two years older than I am.—Besides, I needn't tell her where I've been, need I?"
Channing had accomplished his purpose.
The girl's hunger for the things that were to him matters of everyday, touched him. She stood a moment in the door of the dining-room, gazing in delight at the long carven oak table, with Florentine candelabra at each end and a strip of filet across the center, at either side of which their plates were laid, separated by a vase of white alabaster, holding a few hothouse roses, crimson as blood. Untrained as her eyes were, they appreciated the æsthetic at sight.
"It is all so different," she said with a little sigh. "The very food is different, and beautiful."
"Farwell does himself very well at what he calls his little backwoods farmhouse. But why the sigh?"
"Because—" she looked away shyly, then looked at him again. "I was thinking that I don't belong in this sort of place, and—and you do."