CHAPTER XII
STORMY WEATHER
“What is it?” asked Honor. “Is it a birthday? Whose, then?”
“Goose!” said Patricia Desmond. “It is a re-birthday, don’t you see? You died up there—or any one else would have died—of sheer dullness; now you are alive again, that’s all. Don’t be stupid, Moriole!”
The dining room of the Pension Madeleine was ablaze, with lights; there must have been fully a dozen candles, where ordinarily two sufficed. The table was decked with flowers and bonbons; the best china was displayed, that with the roses and the gold sprig, even to the four tall compotières which seldom emerged from their cupboard. Now they stood at the four corners of the table, filled with translucent preserves of Madame’s very best; peach, apricot, greengage, nectarine. Little Loulou heaved a sigh of rapture, and clasped her hands.
“Ah! Moriole,” she cried, “how we are glad of thy return!”
Seeing Honor stand bewildered, Madame came forward and took her by the hand.
“It is for thee, little one!” she said in her kind, cordial voice. “It is thy festival of return. Welcome back, my child, to our home and to our hearts!”
She must not cry! it would be wicked, not to say ridiculous. She must be glad, and thankful. Honor clenched her hands and shook herself; no tears fell, though her eyes brimmed with them. Her voice trembled as she stammered out her thanks, but it was full of real affection and gratitude. How dear it was of them! how kind they all were! and how could they possibly know?
She sat in the place of honor at Madame’s right hand. Next her was Patricia, regally beautiful in pale green organdie, which set off her exquisite fairness to perfection. Opposite was Stephanie, in her best frock of red silk, with narrow black velvet ribbon—three rows of it—on skirt and bodice. (Floods of tears had been shed over this ribbon. Stephanie wanted five rows; her thrifty mother considered two enough; it was Honor who suggested the compromise of three, and restored harmony to the household.)
Vivette, too, was in her best, the black alpaca which was only less rusty than the one she wore every day. Vivette, so pretty, who might be made so chic if one could only dress her properly. How often had Honor and Patricia debated as to how they would dress Vivette had they but the power! Patricia was for apricot velvet with topazes; Honor maintained that Nile green satin with emeralds was the only thing. Vivette, stolidly French, smiled, and thanked them both, but was entirely satisfied with the suitability of her sober dress.