“Marcia,” said Molly, putting in her head at that moment, “supper is ready. Shall we go in?”
They went into the dining-room. Angela ate little; she did not perceive the efforts the two younger Aldworths had made in her honour; the presence of the best dinner service, the best glass, the fact that the coffee—real Mocha coffee—was served in real Sèvres china. She ate little, thinking all the time of Marcia, who was as unobservant of external things as her friend.
“Now, you will come up to see mother,” said Marcia, when the meal was over.
“Yes; let me. I will tell her about Nesta—I mean as much as she need know to-night.”
Marcia took her friend upstairs. Mrs Aldworth was tired. Her day had not been satisfactory, and she still wanted that one thing which she could not get—the presence of her round, fair, apparently good-natured youngest daughter. When Marcia opened the door, she called out to her:
“Dear me, Marcia! I thought you were going?”
“No, mother; I am not going to-night.”
“Has Nesta come back? We should have plenty of time, if you light that pretty lamp and put it near me, to try the effect of the new blouse. I am so anxious to see if it will fit.”
“I have just got an account of Nesta; she is all right, mother; she will be back to-morrow,” said Marcia. “So I am going to stay with you; and, mother, may I introduce you to my friend, Angela St. Just? Angela, this way, please. Mother, this is Angela, my great friend.” Mrs Aldworth had been on the eve of crying; on the eve of a fit of nervous anxiety with regard to Nesta; but the appearance of Angela seemed to swallow up every other thought. She flushed, then turned pale, then held out her hand.
“I am glad to see you,” she said.