Ralph slowly flushed. The smoke from his pipe choked him—or seemed to. He coughed and turned from Tobias again.
Actually he was seeing in his mind's vision a tiny, milk-white, blue-veined foot sticking out of the leg of a pair of oilcloth overalls.
But Lorna Nicholet possessed dignity, too. Nor did she have always to wait on the ruffling of her temper to show it.
Miss Ida chanced to suffer an infrequent headache on this evening and there were guests at dinner, although it was quite an informal affair. An hour after she had run barefooted and in Ralph's suit of oilskins, along the beach and up the path to the house on Clay Head, Lorna, in a perfect dinner toilet, slipped into the seat at the head of the table after her father and his guests were seated.
There are raveled edges at every dinner to be hemmed. The perfectly served meal is usually the one over which the hostess has worried her nerves to the raw. There was a new maid—of the usual kind one gets at the seashore—and Lorna was obliged to cover her deficiencies and carry on at the same time a spirited conversation with the women guests.
The men were seated at her father's end of the table, and Lorna sensed early in the meal that this was a semi-business gathering. The wives had been brought along to make the occasion seem less like a board-room wrangle.
Now and then Lorna heard a few words of the business discussion that went steadily on from cherry-stone clams to black coffee, like an organ accompaniment to the chatter of feminine voices.
"But we can't count on Endicott."
"What is the matter with the fellow? He was strong for the proposition a year ago."
"Usually Henry Endicott will at least listen to plans for a public improvement."