“It's partly the seasoning and partly the cooking,” said Sylvia, in a somewhat appeased voice.
“This is brown bread, too,” said Meeks. His flattering tone was almost fulsome.
Henry echoed him eagerly. “Yes, I always feel just the same about the brown bread that Sylvia makes,” he said.
But the brown bread touched a discordant tone.
Sylvia frowned. “Mr. Allen always wants it hot,” said she, “and it 'll be stone cold. I don't see where they went to.”
“Here they are now,” said Henry. He and Meeks cast an apprehensive glance at each other. Voices were heard, and Horace and Rose entered.
“Are we late?” asked Rose. She smiled and blushed, and cast her eyes down before Sylvia's look of sharp inquiry. There was a wonderful new beauty about the girl. She fairly glowed with it. She was a rose indeed, full of sunlight and dew, and holding herself, over her golden heart of joy, with a divine grace and modesty.
Horace did not betray himself as much. He had an expression of subdued triumph, but his face, less mobile than the girl's, was under better control. He took his place at the table and unfolded his napkin.
“I am awfully sorry if we have kept you waiting, Mrs. Whitman,” he said, lightly, as if it did not make the slightest difference if she had been kept waiting.
Sylvia had already served Rose with baked beans. Now she spoke to Horace. “Pass your plate up, if you please, Mr. Allen,” she said. “Henry, hand Mr. Allen the brown bread. I expect it's stone cold.”