"We shall not have music here, Mrs. Jones-Dexter. My sister Laura is so fond of it that she can hardly resist the piano. I wish she would help Margery with that party of four," said Happie involuntarily.
"Always so in every large family; one selfish one that does what she will—sometimes it's a he!—while the others do what they must. Show me your books," said Mrs. Jones-Dexter rising. "How did you know my name?"
"Aunt Camilla—Mrs. Charleford—told us after you went out," said Happie.
"Was that Mrs. Charleford? Are you her niece? What are you doing with a tea room then?" demanded Mrs. Jones-Dexter.
"She is mother's oldest friend, but not really my aunt," said Happie. "We have to have a tea room or something, Mrs. Jones-Dexter, to help mother now that we are old enough. We have only the newest novels; I'm sorry."
"I'm not. What right have you to think me a fossil?" But this time Mrs. Jones-Dexter had a glint in her eye that was not cross. She selected the very latest detective story, to Happie's amazement, and departed.
Happie turned back to her duties, and there, seated alone at the smallest and most distant of the tables, was the big man of the cloak and sombrero-like hat whom the girls had noticed with aversion as he looked in at the window that morning. Polly was standing beside him in a matter-of-fact way, trying to get his attention to ask his desires, but he was unconscious of her.
Laura was playing, playing well, as she always did. The mysterious stranger was watching and listening to her, and patient Polly was unnoticed.
Happie walked towards the table, passing before the piano, and thus diverted the man's eyes to Polly.