“I can fix my own plate,” growled Harry happily. “You know I didn’t want to sit in there with all those folks any of the time.”
“But Harry! It’s Carey’s party, and you not at it!”
“Sure! I’m at it! I’m it! Don’t you see? I’m the chauffeur running this car. I’m the chef cooking this dinner! Get out there quick, Cornie, and file those folks into their seats. This soup is getting cold, and they ought to get to work. That’s a good guy; and he’s got some car, I’ll tell the world!”
So Cornelia went back to marshall the party out to the table. Maxwell was turning to leave, saying once more that it was awfully kind of them to ask him but he could not possibly stay. And just then the dining-room door was flung open by Harry and the whole company stopped and breathed a soft “Ah!” as they saw the pretty candle-lit room. Then as one man they went forward and began to search for their places, all save Maxwell who went forward indeed to get a closer glimpse of the pretty table, but lingered in the doorway. There was something so wholesome and homelike about the place, something so interesting and free from self-consciousness about the girl, that he was held in spite of himself. He had not realized that there were such girls as this in his day. He was curious to watch her and see if she really was different.
So far Carey had not even spoken to his own special guest, Clytie. Since he had sighted her afar he had religiously kept his eyes turned away from her vicinity.
It was Grace Kendall who took her by the arm and led her to her seat at the right of the host, for Cornelia had known she could depend upon her father’s kindliness to make all go smoothly during the supper; and, much as he might dislike the looks of the girl, she felt sure he would be polite and see that she was well taken care of. Brand Barlock was on Clytie’s right with Louise next, and she had placed Carey opposite Clytie, not liking to seem to separate them too much, and yet not wishing to throw them together too conspicuously. Grace Kendall was on Carey’s left, with Harry’s place next her. This would have to be for the stranger, and would place him on Cornelia’s right, the fitting place for the guest of honor; yet—her cheeks burned. What would he think? Still, he had come unannounced. He had stayed. Let him take the consequences! What did she care what he thought? She would likely never see him again.
Perhaps he was not going to stay, after all. He was lingering still in the doorway, but seemed just about to go.
Suddenly from behind her came a low whistle:
“Hist! Whist!”
Harry from behind the kitchen door was signalling violently, forgetting that his white shirt-sleeve in his excited gestures was as visible to the rest of the company as to the astonished young man in the opposite doorway about to take a hasty leave.