She was almost afraid to look at him. There was in his eyes a look of questioning, almost of reproach. He had grown thinner and she wondered how Gloria could be so heartless. Still it wasn’t all Gloria’s fault. Ruth had seen her dark eyes melt with pity at sight of the crutches—pity and a sort of bewildered fright, but when he spoke as if he had never seen her before, the soft look faded and her eyes changed from violet to the coldest grey imaginable, and her mouth set in a cold line, quite unlike its natural form.
“I’m sure you’ll like our little Bohemian circle,” she said.
Ruth wondered how she dared make fun of Angela that way in her own house. Somehow or other they had all been presented to Miss Gilchrist, too, but she proved to be one of those persons one habitually forgets, and who is perpetually trying to call back the wandering attention of others, like a friendless pup rubbing his nose in the hands of strangers, hoping some place to find a master. Of course Miss Gilchrist hadn’t that kind of nose, but there was a pitiful look in her dust-coloured brown eyes that simply plead for attention. Evidently Terry saw it, for he was talking to her now, or perhaps he was only trying to relieve what was an awkward moment for him as well as for Ruth.
The cocktails came and though Ruth had never seen Gloria drink anything stronger than coffee before four o’clock in the afternoon, she took this one in the way that Ruth had sometimes seen men drink, almost pouring it down. They all moved off to the breakfast table then, Gloria with John Peyton-Russell, Angela beside Prince Aglipogue, and Terry with Miss Gilchrist. Ruth waited while Professor Pendragon picked up his crutches. Evidently he could get about very well by himself.
“I want to see you after breakfast—as soon as possible,” she whispered to him.
“The enclosed veranda at five o’clock,” he whispered back.
She wanted to ask him what and where the enclosed veranda was, but there was no chance. Every one was talking at once, it seemed; that is, every one except Professor Pendragon and herself. She tried to catch Terry’s eyes, but when she did, he only lifted one eyebrow as who should say:
“You see, your anxiety was needless; they are sophisticated New Yorkers and didn’t mind a bit.”
But they did mind; she knew that. If they had recognized each other—that would have been the sophisticated thing to do. Instead they had taken the romantic course and met as strangers, though unlike strangers they did not talk to each other. All around her she could hear snatches of conversation. Terry seemed to have quite won the formidable Miss Gilchrist.
“Yes; I sing,” she could hear her saying; “but I prefer poetry to any of the arts.”