“Are those your bags, out in the street?” he inquired. “Shan’t I get them?”
“Oh, no!” cried Louie. “Please don’t bother! I’ll get them!” And she made a sort of rush forward, which Mrs. Russell checked.
“Louie!” she said, sternly, and after Geordie had gone down the steps: “Louie! You must have more dignity!”
II
There was no dinner at half past six that evening, or at seven, either. When the clock struck the hour, there was Mrs. Russell sitting on the veranda, while her son paced up and down, hands in his pockets, and his face sulkier than ever. The sun was gone, now, and the clear sky was fading from lemon-yellow into gray; the honeysuckle was coming to life in the quiet dusk.
“How long is she going to stay?” he demanded.
Mrs. Russell didn’t like that tone.
“Naturally I didn’t ask her,” she answered, stiffly. “She’s had a great many—difficulties, and she’s come here, to me, for a rest.”
“D’you mean she’s going to live here?”
She was hurt and amazed at his manner, but it was not her way to show it.