Chapter Four
It was Dick who brought up the broken tennis date, not Clare. Petra came out of her stillness to show a mild surprise. “But I thought it wasn’t definite,” she turned to Clare. “I thought we were to play if we felt like it when the time came. And then it was so hot!”
The breath of silence which Clare allowed to follow this and the expression which crossed her face spoke an acute surprise on her part; but it was quickly followed by a seeming desire to shield Petra from anybody’s criticism, even her own. Tactfully she changed the subject to ask, “What did you do all afternoon, darling? It has been deliciously hot.” And then to Lewis, “I’m like Shelley. I adore hot summer days and am more alive then than ever.”—But she repeated her question to Petra: “What did you do with yourself all afternoon, darling?”
Petra answered, after a momentary hesitation, as if she needed the pause in which to choose between several possible replies, “After lunch I took a book and went off in the woods, where it was cool—and read.”
“That was nice. What book, darling?”
“‘Marius, the Epicurean.’”
“Really! It’s years since I’ve even looked into it. I should love to read some of ‘Marius’ with you, sometime, Petra. Why don’t we? I’ll take it to bed with me to-night, skim through as far as you have gone to refresh my memory, and then, to-morrow, we will go on with it together. Petra, yes! You come to my church with me to-morrow morning, early, and we’ll read ‘Marius.’ Where did you leave the book?”
Wild color flaming in Petra’s cheeks took Lewis by surprise. Again that hesitation before answering her stepmother’s simple question. “I’m afraid I left it in the woods—somewhere. I’ll find it before people begin coming to-night. I might go and look now?”
“Oh, no. Not now. Of course not. At least, it depends on what copy you took. Was it your father’s specially bound copy?”