“Pretty! pretty!” he ejaculated, mechanically setting the glass down. “Why she’s a dream!”
He turned again and looked at Mercedes, who was speaking to his mother. His face was staring with admiration, a slight fixed smile on his lips. It was the look of the male suddenly stricken by the physical charm of the female. June dropped her eyes to the table with a sensation of feeling cold, insignificant and small.
“Your mother’s lemonade,” she said, pushing the glass toward him. “You were going to take it to her.”
He did not appear to hear her. His eyes were fastened on Mercedes, the slight smile still on his lips. Forgetful of the glass with which June had touched his hand, he slowly walked across the balcony to where Mrs. Barclay stood and said gaily,
“Mother, won’t you introduce me to Miss Gracey? We came very near meeting at Foleys three years ago and just missed it. I don’t want that to happen again.”
When June had welcomed her guests she went back to her seat behind the table. Presently Mrs. Barclay drew her chair nearer to her, for Mrs. Barclay began to feel that to be a fifth among four young people so well pleased with one another was not entertaining. So she moved up toward June and talked to her about the dishonesty of the new butcher at San Mateo as compared with that of the old butcher at Menlo Park.
June listened and now and then spoke. She did not seem to know much about either butcher, and Mrs. Barclay made a mental note of the fact that she must be a poor housekeeper. Once or twice she looked at the elder woman with eyes that were disconcertingly empty of attention. When that lady rose to go she remarked that the girl looked pale and tired. She said this to Jerry on the way home.
“Did she?” he answered absently. “Poor little June! She’s just the dearest little woman in the world. But isn’t that Gracey girl a wonder? I never saw a more beautiful face.”
CHAPTER IX
THE CHOICE OF MAIDS
During the months of summer, dwellers along the line of the railway became familiar with the figure of Lionel Harrower. He constantly went down to San Mateo on Sunday afternoons and returned to town on Sunday evening. This, at first, was regarded as the outward and visible sign of his devotion to Miss Gracey, but by and by it was remarked that he did not take the Gracey carriage which so often stood under the live-oaks at the depot, but mounted a hired hack and was driven off in the direction of the De Soto house.