He resisted the impulse to turn fiercely upon them and demand how they dared to speak of his young wife in that manner. It required all his strength of will to keep down his anger.
He passed the two girls on the path a moment later, and though they gave a start, they believed that he had not heard their remarks, for he did not betray his anger in his face.
Eugene looked about for his wife. His eyes wandered sharply around as he threaded his way among the dancers. But Ida was not visible.
Crossing the lawn, he encountered Vivian Deane and Captain Drury. She was looking her sweetest in pale-blue summer silk half veiled by white lace and pink rosebuds.
He would have passed them by, with a few forced words of pleasantry, but Vivian would not have it so.
"You have not danced once this afternoon, Eugene," she said; "and a host who does his duty should figure in some of the waltzes at least. Are you looking for a partner now? Shall I find you one?"
"No; thanks, Vivian," he answered. "I am looking for my—my wife. Do you know where she is?"
"Yes," returned Vivian. "I saw her a moment ago. Let me see where it was. Oh, yes; I remember—down by the clump of oaks. She and Mr. Hollis had danced four consecutive dances together, and were resting. By the way," she added, with a gay little laugh, and something like a pout on her pretty red lips, "you must tell her not to monopolize Mr. Hollis, Eugene. It is too bad of her. It does not give a single girl a fair chance, you know."
Vivian moved away with the captain after giving him that parting shot, and Eugene was not rendered much easier by her last words, although they were apparently gayly and carelessly spoken.