His birth-day was near at hand, and he determined to invite his friends to rejoice with him, at his partial restoration to health. It was to be an unostentatious affair—a dinner, and no ladies but those belonging to the family. Mr. Read was as impatient as a child at its first tea-party.
"They are late, Helen! they are not coming!" he said every few minutes, while they were awaiting the guests. He was working himself into a passion, when the welcome ring appeased him.
"Mr. Copeland!" called the stentorian lungs of the footman; and Mrs. Read was as white, as if the hand of Death had smitten her.
"How are you all?" said Richard, in his joyous, rattling style. "Miss Ross, I am delighted to meet you—Miss Josephine, I will not disparage your blooming cheeks by asking after your health,—and you, Mr. Read, have been practicing upon our fears, by stories of illness—hasn't he, Helen—you are ill!" he said, brought to a full stop by her pallor.
"Ill! you are well—are you not?" said Mr. Read, in alarm.
"Well! yes! what notions you have, Richard!" and the color flowed back. "When did you come in?—down, I mean, and how are they at home?"
"'Home' is too bridish for a demure matron; but they are well, and sent love. I arrived this morning, and should have been in before, but for business."
"Don't leave the room, Helen. Somebody will come while you are out. Send John for what you want;" said Mr. Read.—She was slipping out through the back parlor.
"I will be gone but a second," she answered; and Mr. Read was still telling Richard how opportune his visit was when she returned. She was the collected, urbane hostess, only an eager glance at each arrival, betrayed nervousness or expectation. Mr. Read watched the door, also; and his displeasure at the tardiness of his favorite was audibly vented.
"Helen! why don't Mr. Ashlin come?" he said, in Ida's hearing. Ears less acute would not have distinguished his wife's reply.