“There!” she cried. “Isn’t this nice?”
Her gay voice sounded very pitiful in the dark. Mrs. Russell resolved to make an effort to help the poor creature.
“Yes,” she said. “It is—very nice.” But no other words came.
There could be no silence where Louie was, though; even if no one spoke, there was a swarm of dainty little sounds, the clink of a porcelain cup on its saucer, the musical ring of a silver spoon on the brass tray; the sugar tongs against the crystal bowl.
“There!” Louie cried again. “Don’t you smoke, Geordie?”
“Thanks!” said he, gloomily, and taking a cigarette from his case, he leaned forward to light it at the candle.
“Mercy!” exclaimed Mrs. Russell. The two others looked inquiringly at her, but she said hastily that it was nothing. For she certainly did not intend to explain what had startled her.
It was the sight of Geordie’s face as he had leaned over the candle. His blue eyes had seemed to dance and gleam, the flickering light had given him a look as if smiling in impish glee—altogether, he had looked so much, so very much, as Louie had looked years ago.
He had drawn back into the shadows, tilting his chair against the trunk of a tree, and, feeling herself deserted, Mrs. Russell[Pg 433] tried to talk to her sister. Useless! Geordie was there, and could hear if he wished.
She understood what Louie was thinking about—what things she had in her queer, pitiful life to think about, what compensations she had found for missing wifehood and motherhood?