“Are we late, dear?” asked her mother, puffing heavily out on the veranda.
Edith did not answer; she scarcely seemed to hear. Alice went up to Hall with a smile.
“I dressed in fifteen minutes,” she announced gaily. “What have you been doing with yourself?”
“Making an ass of myself, as usual,” he muttered; then looked toward Mrs. Rogers.
“What do you mean?” Alice inquired as she followed his glance. “What’s the matter, Sis?” she asked, going up to Edith, and putting a hand on her arm.
The other tried to smile. “Nothing, dear; nothing,” she said, her voice sounding far off. “Mr. Hall said something he thought made me feel bad, but it wasn’t anything—not anything at all.”
“What do you mean, Mr. Man, by saying mean things to my little sister?” demanded Alice playfully, shaking her finger at Hall.
His reply was interrupted by Mrs. Pope. “How long before dinner, Edith?” she inquired. “It’s almost seven now.”
“It will be a little late, mother. Perhaps ten minutes yet,” Edith managed to say. She glanced timidly at her husband, but his stern, impassive face contained no message that she could read.