“We shall miss Gail very much if she should return to her home at the end of the season,” ventured Miss Von Ploon, and waited.
“We dread to think of losing her,” admitted Mrs. Davies, beginning to feel fluttery. The question had been asked, the information given.
Miss Van Ploon turned to her father, and bowed with formal deliberation. Nicholas Van Ploon looked at her inquiringly. He had not detected any particular meaning in the conversation, but that bow was a letter of instructions. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket, and touched his lips. He arose, in his completely stuffed cutaway, and deliberately brought forward his chair. He sat down facing his daughter and Mrs. Helen Davies. The latter lady was tremulous within but frigid without. Mr. Van Ploon cleared his throat.
“I believe that you are the acknowledged sponsor of Miss Sargent,” he inquired.
Mrs. Davies nodded graciously.
“May I take the liberty of asking if your beautiful ward has formed a matrimonial alliance?”
“I am quite safe in saying that she has not.” Thus Mrs. Davies, in a tone of untroubled reserve.
“Then I feel free to speak,” went on the head of the Van Ploons, in whose family the ancient custom of having a head was still rigidly preserved. “I may state that we should feel it an honour to have Miss Sargent become a member of the Van Ploon family.”
Since he seemed to have more to say, and since he seemed to have paused merely for rhetorical effect, Mrs. Helen Davies only nodded her head, suppressing, meantime, the look of exultation which struggled to leap into her face.
“My son Houston, I am authorised to state, is devoted to Miss Sargent. We have discussed the matter among us, and beg to assure you that Miss Sargent will be received with affection, if she should consent to honour us with this alliance.”