“Where have you been?” demanded Sylvia of Henry. He cast an appealing glance at Meeks. The two men stood shoulder to shoulder, as if confronted by a common foe of nervous and exasperated feminity.
“I'm to blame for that,” said Meeks. “I wanted to see if you had any wild grapes to spare, and I asked Henry to go down to the orchard with me. I suppose you can spare me some of those wild grapes?”
“Take all you want, and welcome,” said Sylvia. “Now, I'll put supper on the table, and we'll eat it. I ain't going to wait any longer for anybody.”
After Sylvia had gone, with a jerk, out of the room, the two men looked at each other. “Couldn't you give Allen a hint to lay low to-night, anyhow?” whispered Meeks.
Henry shook his head. “They'll be sure to show it some way,” he replied. “I don't know what's got into Sylvia.”
“It seems a pretty good sort of match, to me.”
“So it does to me. Of course Rose has got more money, and I know as well as I want to that Horace has felt a little awkward about that; but lately he's been earning extra writing for papers and magazines, and it was only last Monday he told me he'd got a steady job for a New York paper that wouldn't interfere with his teaching. He seemed mighty tickled about it, and I guess he made up his mind then to go ahead and get married.”
“Come to supper,” cried Sylvia, in a harsh voice, from the next room, and the two men went out at once and took their seats at the table. Rose's and Horace's places were vacant. “I'd like to know what they think,” said Sylvia, dishing up the baked beans. “They can eat the corn cold. It's just as good cold as it is all dried up. Here it is six o'clock and they ain't come yet.”
“These are baked beans that are baked beans,” said Meeks.
“Yes, I always have said that Sylvia knows just how to bake beans,” said Henry. “I go to church suppers, and eat other folks' baked beans, but they 'ain't got the knack of seasoning, or something.”