They entered the drawing-room together. Gertrude and John were alone. For a moment neither spoke. Then the young man, bending forward, whispered: “Gertie,” he asked anxiously, “aren't you—haven't you anything to say to me?”
“I thought, perhaps, you had something to say to me, John.”
“I have. Gertie, I—”
There was a sound from above. Cousin Percy Hungerford, fully dressed and debonnair as always, was descending the stairs.
“What's the row?” he drawled. “I heard the racket and decided the house must be on fire. What's up?”
Whatever else was “up” it was quite plain John was sorry that Mr. Hungerford was up because of it. His tone was decidedly chilly as he answered.
“A wire for me,” he said shortly. “I'm called to Boston at once.”
“Really! How extraordinary! It wasn't a fire then, merely a false alarm. Sorry to have you go, Doane, I'm sure.”
He spoke as if he were the host whose gracious pleasure it had been to entertain the guest during the latter's stay. John resented the tone.
“Thanks,” he said crisply. “Gertie, I—I hope—”