The morning passed somehow. They had finished dinner and she was waiting for Gage to propose something. He usually took the children for country drives on Sunday. They were in the big sunroom, shady now with its awnings let down, and Helen was stretched out on a white willow chaise longue trying to believe she was ridiculous and making mountains out of molehills when a maid came in to announce a caller.
“There’s a lady and gentleman to see Mr. Flandon.”
“You hear, Gage?”
“Who is it?” asked Gage.
“I think it’s a lady who’s been here before.”
Gage’s face was interested. He rose from his chair and followed the maid. Helen heard a brief colloquy of voices then Gage saying, “Come out here where my wife is, Mrs. Thorstad.”
He reappeared through the French doors with the little Mohawk lady behind him, and behind her a man, a rather stooping, pleasant-faced gentleman with well poised head and an air of mingled anxiety and embarrassment. His manner was unlike that of his wife which was definite, sharp, assertive, even before she spoke. As she saw them Helen had the quick perception of a crisis. The parents of this girl here together could mean only complications of trouble. Her mind stiffened itself for whatever might be coming, as she rose and greeted Mrs. Thorstad with easy cordiality and accepted the introduction to her husband graciously.
“Did you enjoy the convention? I didn’t see you again after Wednesday.”
“No,” answered Mrs. Thorstad, “I came up to St. Pierre on Friday night.”
She seated herself in the chair Gage brought for her, a little uneasily, with a righteous wriggle of her thin body. Her husband and Gage stood together exchanging a few commonplace remarks. The air was electric.