“Well, darling, you have had a gala-day, haven’t you?” exclaimed Mrs. Ford, bustling excitedly back from her disappointed vigil at the window. “Why, my dear, he’s simply charming. Such manners! Did you notice his rings? Superb, weren’t they? Tell me, honey, was the tea nicely served?”
“Mr. Lamont said he never touches it—so—so we didn’t have any,” explained Sue, wearily enough for her mother to notice it.
“Headache, honey?” she asked tenderly. “I’m so distressed about the tea, deary. I did want him to see my new embroidery.”
“It’s nothing, mother—only one of my old headaches. I’ll be all right after a little nap.”
“I hope he didn’t notice it, darling. Tell me—did I look nicely?”
“Why, of course, mother——”
“Didn’t he think my new hat becoming? Don’t tell me he didn’t, for I know he did. He could hardly take his eyes off it—such a sweet surprise from father, wasn’t it?”
“Mr. Lamont didn’t mention it, mother.”
“Well,” she sighed, laying the new jet bonnet over the two-handed copy of “The Storming of Sebastopol” on top of the piano, “I suppose he sees so many, doesn’t he?”
“I’m sure he does, mother,” Sue returned quietly, moving wearily to the new gilt chair he had occupied—another one of Ebner Ford’s recent munificent surprises, which she put back in its place next to the piano, a formidable-looking black upright with a weak tone, its fret-sawed front backed with magenta satin. Then she entered her bedroom and closed her door.