"Mr. Alden said for me to 'phone the garage, that the car would be here for you directly—will you sit down—"
There was a bench on the stair landing below them beside an open window. Felicia gestured toward it, and the maid nodded.
She could hear the voices more clearly now, she could even see two of the speakers through an arched doorway. They were sprawled easily in big chairs, a blue haze of smoke floating over them. One of them was laughing,
"That's all right—we agree with you—we'll go in your wild scheme if you can find some other fools too—only, I say Dud, before you beat it just sing a couple things, will you? You might be gone six months instead of three and that's too long between songs. I know you aren't singing and you haven't any voice and all that, but just a couple to show there's no hard feeling—those things you used to—the one that the darkey boy wrote—that Dunbar chap—'The Sum'—and that other one—"
Others added to the appeal. Some one objected. Felicia caught a brief glimpse of a tall figure, over-coat on arm, the doorway, and a hand pulling him back. But on he came, protesting vibrantly that he never sang any more. He looked up toward the figure on the stairs,
"I believe I'll run up to say Howdy and Good-by to your Uncle Peter—"
One step, two steps he had ascended before she could actually see him. Then with her heart in her eyes she looked to him—he was so tall, so broad shouldered, so superb in his ruddy blondeness!
"Oh, Dudly Hamilt!" her lips moved. But she leaned back against the shadow of the curtains as he drew nearer.
He was so close she could touch him, he was so close that at last he saw her—that is he saw a little drab person whose figure was lost in a caped coat.
"Beg pardon," he murmured—and passed her—