She promptly cast upon the shore of conversation the first drift of her own interest.
“And what in the world has become of Julia!” she exclaimed. She almost challenged him with it. “You would think two hours would be enough to ride round ‘Tres Pinos,’ especially with her friends coming—and all this fog!”
Her smile stayed with him while her eyes roved to the windows. She was notably expectant, but not, as Longacre seemed to sense it, so anxious as would be natural to a mother whose daughter has chosen the coast road on a thick night. While he said something amiable about the safeness of sand roads and the instinct of a horse, he felt that he was looking hardly less expectant than she.
“And where’s dear Julia?” Cissy Fitz Hugh’s voice preceded her into the group.
“Oh, Julia—”
The name, tossed back and forth, arrested Florence Essington’s attention.
“Julia is a very naughty child,” Mrs. Budd happily proclaimed. “She said she would be home by five, and then she made me promise not to wait tea for her.” Her eloquent hands deprecated those of the clock, which pointed to half after six. “And now she’s hardly time to dress for dinner!”
“Julia,” said Holden, turning his large head on his shoulder, “may come to dinner in her riding-boots, so long as she comes.”
“Just what I’ve always said, Mr. Holden,” Cissy seconded. “Dear Julia—”
“Well, there they are!” cried Mrs. Budd, her eyes flying to the door. Holden opened it on the white darkness.