Mistress Kate Hobart, California-born and bred, was of the cheerful salt of the earth, a frank and outspoken young woman whose vivacity was unfettered, and to whom mystery and melancholy were alike insupportable. Having twice entertained the Langfords on Jack Mountain during the summer, she thought she knew the family well enough to enjoy a visit in the Denver household, and so had accepted Mrs. Langford’s invitation willingly. But after two such depressive days as had never before been ticked off in any calendar of hers, days which made her homesick for Jack Mountain, she went down to breakfast on the Saturday morning determined to make some excuse—any excuse—for flight.
But at the breakfast table she was moved to reconsider. In some manner quite as inexplicable as its gathering, the storm cloud had lifted in a night; and for the first time since her darkening of the Hollywood door she was made to feel that an atmosphere of gloomy mystery was not the normal respiratory medium of the household.
As yet, no one save his mother had seen the returned prodigal, but they all knew he was safe at home. And since he had seen fit to account for his absence by a most ingenious paraphrase of the truth, there was no hint of the terrible story wrapped up in the damp newspaper beside the judge’s plate to mar the good cheer of the meal. Isabel alone appeared to lag in the ascent of the mount of cheerfulness; whereat her father rallied her, as fathers will:
“What is it this morning, Bella? Is it the unattainable Paris art school, or just an everyday picture that doesn’t paint itself? You look as if you had lost a friend, or gained an enemy.”
Isabel choked at the unintentional pointing of the thrust, and Dorothy came to her rescue:
“Don’t be a tease, papa,” she begged. “Isabel is going to surprise us all some day, and then you will lose your courtesy title and be known as the father of Miss Langford, the artist.”
“‘A prophet is not without honour,’” quoted Mistress Kate. “I think Isabel does very good work; don’t you, Mrs. Langford?”
“I refuse to call it work,” the mother asserted, pouring a second cup of coffee for the guest. “It is a very proper accomplishment for a young woman, and as such I have always encouraged it.”
“Oh, don’t!” said Isabel, and when the judge looked up and saw the real distress in her eyes he changed the subject, or thought to.
“I wonder what has become of Harry lately,” he remarked, and thereupon Isabel quaked afresh and nerved herself for the worst that could possibly be said.