The pell-mell entrance of the children shattered the spell that gripped them. Baby, drunk with excitement, staggered to Marjorie and climbed, a crumpled heap of tarltan and tinsel, into her lap. Besser, proudly wearing a jester’s cap over one ear, retrieved from his pocket, three sticky lumps that had once been cake, and laid them on the table. Althea, infected by the snobbery in which she had so lately been a participant, flipped up her skirts at the back, and wriggled decorously upon a chair.
“Well, my treasures, and was the party boo-ti-fool?” demanded Marjorie.
A torrent of speech answered her.
“And were you dear, good children?” she asked. “What of my tomboy, Althea?”
“I was the goodest one at the party,” replied that young person. “Mind you, Mummie, I was the only child what folded up my napkin!”
CHAPTER 22.
Dilling and Azalea met on the following morning, in all outward respects, exactly as they had met for nearly five years.
A third person watching them would have detected no change in their manner, no relaxing in their poise, no studied indifference. Neither was there discernible the strained control proclaiming a furtive curiosity—a hunger—to see how the other would behave.
“Good morning,” said Dilling, finding her engrossed with the mail. “I hope you are well.”
Azalea echoed this cliché and observed that their correspondence seemed to increase daily. It was the sort of thing they often said.