Then he smiled. “A wing it shall be,” he declared.
Later Mrs. Baron took occasion to assert her authority. “Children should not stare,” she declared, trying to assume a severe contralto tone, but taking care to smile, so that her rebuke would seem to have been kindly offered.
Indeed, Bonnie May was paying less attention to her dinner than to the exquisite napery, the cut-glass vase in which some of Flora’s roses had been placed, the dinner-set of chaste design, and to the countenances about her.
“Quite true,” she admitted, in response to Mrs. Baron. “But you know, when you get into a new company, it’s quite natural to size everybody up, so you can make up your mind what to expect of them.”
She took a very small bite from a young green onion, holding her little finger elegantly apart. “How prettily the white blends with the green,” she said approvingly, looking critically at the onion.
Mrs. Baron flushed. “My remark was that children ought not to stare,” she repeated persistently and less gently.
The child’s serenity failed her. “I don’t, usually,” she said in painful embarrassment, “and I don’t believe I criticise people’s manners, either, unless it’s in private.”
She regained her self-control immediately. She replaced the onion on her plate and lifted her napkin to her lips with exquisite care.
The adult persons at the table were all looking from one to another. There were horizontal lines in every forehead.
“I can’t remember having been anywhere where the service was so admirable,” the guest added, directing her glance toward her own section of the board. There was a suggestion of gentle ennui in her tone.