Berty said nothing, but her face grew pinker. Then she swept them all out to the semi-darkness of the veranda. The Mayor should not step into that brightly lighted room and find them all there.
Wedged comfortably on the veranda, and talking over mutual friends, Margaretta, Selina, and Tom were having a charming time. Roger, seated by the glass door, was restless, and kept moving in and out the dining-room.
Berty was like a bird, perching here and there, and running at intervals to the front windows, ostensibly to watch for her grandmother, in reality to seize upon the Mayor at the earliest moment of his arrival.
Margaretta and Selina were in a corner of the veranda. Tom was nearest the dining-room, and presently there was a whisper in his ear. “Jimson has arrived—hot—mad—explanatory—detained—Berty condoling.”
Not a muscle of Tom’s face moved, and Roger, turning on his heel, departed.
Presently he came back. “Berty frantic—Jimson has got on wrong kind of necktie. She has corralled him behind piano.”
Poor Berty—she had indeed driven the unhappy late-comer behind the upright piano in the parlour. “Oh, Mr. Jimson, how could you? That necktie is a bright green!”
“Gr—green!” stuttered the discomfited man. “Why, I matched your sample.”
“You’re colour blind!” exclaimed the girl, in despair. “Oh, what shall we do—but your suit is lovely,” she added, as she saw the wilting effect of her words upon him. “Come, quick, before any one sees,” and she hurried him out into the hall. “Here, go in that corner while I get one of my shirt-waist ties.”
Mr. Jimson, hot and perspiring, tried to obliterate himself against the wall until she came back.