Little Constance said no more, but her gaze remained glued to my face in an absorption so intense that she leaned forward, pressing her chest against the edge of the table. Betty played with her knife and fork with an air of deep thought. Judkins reentered to my relief.
He was passing the next dish when little Constance broke the silence.
“Evie, why did you get all red just now?”
“Constance,” said her mother, “if you’re a good girl and stop talking you can have a cherry when lunch is over.”
“Thanks, mama,” said little Constance, in her most mouse-like manner.
After lunch we drove about in the auto and shopped, and as the afternoon began to darken Betty haled me to a reception.
“Madge Knowlton’s daughter’s coming out,” she said. “And as you used to know her before you went to Europe, it’s your duty to come.”
“Why is it my duty? I was never an intimate of hers.”
I’m shy about going to parties now; I feel like Rip Van Winkle when he comes back.
“To swell the crowd. It’s a social service you owe to a fellow woman in distress.”