Auntie Clem triumphed. She had Miss Gail all fixed up before that fancy French maid had on her trifling little cap and her hair primped. Arly, choosing Auntie Clem instantly for her personal attendant on this brief visit, naturally refused to intrude further on the home coming, and expressed herself as frantically in love with her little blue bedroom and boudoir.
When Gail went downstairs, in a comfortable little red house gown which was tremendously artful in its simplicity, she found the whole jolly company in the big dining room, where Miles Sargent had insisted on opening something in honour of the happy event. She coloured as her father turned his twinkling eyes on her, but he did not take occasion to call her a slave driver or to tease her any further about the work of art which had driven her home. She reproached herself crossly for having suspected him of such a crudity. Of course he would not do that!
They had sandwiches, and olives, and cake, and cookies—trust Mammy Emma for that—and nuts and fruit and bonbons, and coffee, and champagne. Everybody was excited, walking around with a sandwich in one hand and an olive in the other, joking with Gail, and complimenting her, and teasing her, but in every word and look and action, showing that they loved her.
She had a new knowledge of them, an understanding of what it is like to have a whole circle of friends who have grown up from childhood together. They understood each other, and knew each other’s weaknesses and faults, so that they were not shocked when they saw evidences of them, and they knew each other’s virtues, so that they did not overestimate anything and look for too much, and they were dependent upon each other and knew it, and they were loyal; that was it! Loyal! Loyal to the very core! It was good, so good to be home!
No one thought anything about it when Howard Clemmens stayed behind, after all the rest had gone home. Howard had always done that. It was his right.
Howard was distressed in his mind about several things, and, out of a habitual acquiescence in his old assumption of leadership, and because she was tired, and because she was tender of thought toward all her old friends, she answered his very direct questions. Yes, she had finished her visit. No, she was not engaged. That atrocious newspaper article had only been a regular Sunday paper social sensation. They fastened that sort of a story on some one at least once a year. These little matters settled, Howard was himself again. He was very glad that Gail had returned to her normal mode of existence, and now that all this foolishness was over, he took the earliest opportunity to mention the little matter between them. Would Gail reconsider her answer to the question he had asked her in New York? He informed her fully as to the state of his affections, which had not changed in the least, and he rather expected that this magnanimous attitude on his part would meet with melting appreciation. He was very much astonished that it did not, and displeased when she refused him again. Confound it, he had not given her time to settle down!
She was only slightly troubled when he bade her good-night. She was sorry that she could not see the matter as he did, but there was no trace of doubt in her mind. Somehow, Howard seemed rather colourless of late. He was a dear, good boy; but she was not the kind of a girl he needed.
With only as much trouble on her brow as could be smoothed away by her fingertips, she went back into the dining room, where her father, who liked to have a table near him, was enjoying an extra cup of coffee with his cigar, and shedding the mild disapproval of Mrs. Sargent, who foresaw a restless night for him. Gail, who had not spared time for food, poured herself a glass of water, picked up one of the delicious little chicken sandwiches, and sat down, within easy leaning distance of her father, for one of the good, old-time, comfortable family chats. Taffy curled around her feet, and the group was complete.
Somehow, that inexplicable feeling of loneliness returned to her, in the midst of this most dear intimacy. What was it? No one can form far ties without leaving behind some enduring thread of spiritual communication; for better or for worse.