“Well, Gay! How you’ve grown up—and with the hair up, too! Mamma wrote me all about you, but I had quite a different sort of person in mind! How dare you be fair among all us black Flemings!”
And with her arm still about Gay, she turned to the others for the introductions. Last of all came David’s greeting with his kindly smile and keen-eyed inspection, and when his hand touched hers Gabrielle was conscious of that same suffocating flutter at her heart again and dared scarcely raise her eyes.
“Mamma, you’re simply a miracle worker!” Sylvia was saying, gratefully. “I knew there’d be fires, and I knew you’d realize how weary and cold we are, but upon my word, I hardly know Wastewater! This room is actually civilized. I promise you nothing for the halls,” Sylvia said to her guests, “but we can run through them at full speed. And as long as the rooms are warm——”
She was beautiful, no question of it. Dark, vivid, and glowing, yet with something queenly and superb about her, too. Instantly it seemed to Gay that she had never been parted from Sylvia, that all these separated school years had been a dream. Years ago, as a bony, pallid, big-toothed little girl, it had been decided that a balmier climate than Wastewater would be wise for Gay, and she had been bundled off to the Southern branch of the Boston convent quite contentedly and had been happy there. But now she remembered how close she and Sylvia had been in the days of sand castles and flower ladies, and that Sylvia even then had had this same bright, sweet, responsive manner that was yet impressive and fine, with something of conscious high integrity in it; something principled and constructive even in her gayest moods. Sylvia was really—Gay came back to the word with another little prick of envy—really “superior.” She was poised where Gay was simple; she was definite, where Gay was vague; her voice had pleasant affectations, she broadened her a’s in the Boston manner.
And Sylvia’s youth and her fresh, glowing beauty kept these things from being in the least displeasing. She was happy, now, delighted with the unwonted warmth and brightness of the old house, delighted to be home, and perhaps delighted, too, to find herself already the most important person here, with these friends of hers seeing this big, imposing old mansion as some day to be all her own.
“Not tea, Maria!” she said, eagerly, to the old servant. “Mamma, I congratulate you upon introducing anything like tea into Wastewater!”
For Maria, followed by Daisy, one of the newer maids, was indeed beaming behind a loaded tray.
“I thought we’d dine about seven, dear,” said Flora, crimped, rustling, flushed with excitement. “And that you might like the hot drink after your trip. It’s not six yet.”
“I assure you, girls,” Sylvia laughingly said, “my mother’s treating you like royalty! I’ve been telling them all the way down,” resumed Sylvia, now dispensing the tea with quick murmurs and dextrous quiet movements that Gay secretly admired, “that we are absolutely Victorian here, and rather uncomfortable into the bargain.”
“Tea’s Victorian,” Gabrielle said, as she paused. “It’s just plain bread and butter,” she added, smiling at the elder Miss Montallen hospitably.