Miranda came to the door, her brown face wreathed in smiles.
“Lunch is ready, Mis’ Carter, an’ dem tarts came out right smart, yes’m!”
Mrs. Carter rose and laid her hand on Leigh’s shoulder.
“Come, darling,” she said fondly. “We’ve got a nice lunch and some cherry tarts for you.”
The boy rose awkwardly, and his mother led him along, clinging to him, doting upon him, while the rest of the family trailed in the rear. As they entered the dining-room, Leigh counted the places.
“Sit right down here beside mamma,” cooed his mother, patting the chair on her right. “I’ve got lamb chops and green peas—just for you, dear!”
Leigh stood with his hand on the back of his chair, and glanced questioningly up and down the table.
“Where’s Fanchon?” he asked in a low voice.
There was that kind of silence that seems to be audible. It was Mr. Carter who answered him, frowning heavily.
“She left us some time ago,” he said shortly. “I wish you to know, Leigh, that—this family’s done with her. Understand?”