“I fear we had better be going,” she said, making a little movement to rise. “I’m afraid it’s awfully late.”
Joe snapped out his watch, bending closer to the window, where he ascertained it lacked a few minutes past six.
“You can stay a little longer, can’t you?” he pleaded. “Now that we’re to be good friends.”
“It’s on account of mother,” she replied evasively, catching the tone of Mrs. Ford’s voice which had risen to that shrill key which invariably accompanied her leave-taking—a moment in which she again referred beamingly to Lamont, who had been kindness itself, she had heard, to Mrs. Van Cortlandt, “all through that awful tragedy, my dear,” she explained to Miss Jane Moulton, who had scarcely opened her lips. “He’s kind to every one,” she went on effusively. “You should see the beautiful roses he sent me only yesterday—two dozen of the most gorgeous American Beauties. I was so surprised—as I told daughter....”
Her words nettled Joe, and he turned sharply. Enoch struck a match savagely under the mantelpiece and lighted the Argand burner.
“Oh, please don’t!” protested Sue. “I do love the twilight so, Mr. Crane.”
“Then you shall have it, my dear,” returned Enoch. “I wonder if you’ll do me a favor. Will you sing to us—in that twilight you love? Just a little song, any you please. I’m sorry there’s no piano. Come, won’t you?”
“Please,” pleaded Joe.
“Why, yes; of course I will if you wish it, Mr. Crane,” consented Sue. “Let me see—what shall I sing?”
“That ravishing little thing from—‘Aïda’—isn’t it, darling?—the one with the fascinating warbles,” suggested her mother. “She has another one that’s too cute for words,” she confided to Miss Jane. “I’ll get her to sing it.”