“Cecil should be here by now,” observed Mrs. Lanier, with a glance at the clock. “He promised to make a particular effort to come, on Denis’s account. Poor Cecil!”
Emily wondered in what way she had injured Cecil, that he should be sighed over in this fashion.
It was now after eight o’clock, but Mrs. Lanier decided to wait for the poor boy until half past eight; so there they sat, in the icy room, and all of them silent now. Cynthia had given up, Mrs. Lanier had asked all the questions in her mind, and certainly Emily was not inclined to introduce any topic on her own account. She was stiff with cold, and she fancied her miserable heart was numbed, too. She didn’t care very much about anything.
III
“Hello, people!” cried a jolly voice.
There in the doorway stood a most engaging young fellow—a real human being, thought Emily, a creature warm and happy, and able to smile. Smile he did, and directly at Emily.
“Cecil!” said Mrs. Lanier. “Denis’s wife, you know.”
He went over to her gladly, and took her cold little hand in a cordial grasp.
“Clever of Denis!” he observed. “Very!”
She looked up at him, half incredulous, but in his face there was no mockery, no disdain—nothing but a very frank approbation. She knew that he thought her pretty. In the bright glow of his admiration her prettiness seemed suddenly to come to life again, her frozen heart beat faster, and color rose in her cheeks. A friend had come!