"Robert, Robert. He's the one they all play to here." MacBirney, sitting in a lounging-chair, emphasized the last words, as he could do when impatient, and shut his teeth and lips as he did when perplexed. "I wonder why he didn't come to-night?"
Alice had no explanation to offer. "Charles," she suggested, tying her hair-ribbon, "is very nice."
"Why, yes--you and Charles are chummy already. I wish we could get better acquainted with Robert," he continued, knitting his brows. "I thought you were a little short with him last night, Alice."
"Short? Oh, Walter! We didn't exchange a dozen words."
"That's just the way it struck me."
"But we had no chance to. I am sure I didn't mean to be short. I sang, didn't I? And more on his account, from what Dolly had said to me, than anybody else's. He didn't like my singing, but I couldn't help that. He didn't say a single word."
"Why, he did say something!"
"Just some stiff remark when he thanked me."
Alice, rising, left her table. MacBirney laughed.
"Oh, I see. That's what's the matter. Well, you're quite mistaken, my dear." Catching Alice in his arms as she passed, in a way he did when he wished to seem affectionate, MacBirney drew his wife to him. "He did like it. He remarked to me just as he said good-night, that you had a fine voice."