“How are they all? Judge Jessup, Dr. Barbour—the—the Denbighs?”
Daniel, staring straight before him, had answered shortly. All their friends were in good health, he said. But he had previously caught William’s eye, and something in its expression rankled in Daniel’s mind. He glanced moodily at the heap of luggage in the cab with him, topped by a small green-leather bag with the initials “F. L. F.” in silver on the flap. She was pretty; he had perceived the subtle charm of the small, irregular face and the beautiful, wild eyes. Yet he was not reassured; he was, in fact, vaguely uneasy.
Then he reflected bitterly that he was a prejudiced judge. He had never been able to get the look in Virginia Denbigh’s eyes out of his mind. He could see them still as he gave her the first warning. The blood went up to Daniel’s ears and burned there; he abhorred that little green bag.
Both taxis slowed down at the Carters’ door, a stream of light flowed out of the house, and Mrs. Carter, frightened and tearful, appeared at the threshold, supported on either hand by Leigh and Emily.
Daniel, busying himself with directions about the hand-luggage, escaped the ordeal of the greeting, but he caught a glimpse of his mother trying to be nice to the bride and then crying on William’s shoulder. When Daniel finally entered the house, the young stranger had taken off her hat and tossed aside the light furs that she had worn with such a daring effect of style. Her brother-in-law was almost startled, she looked so small, so delicate, and so young. Her hair was fluffy and dusky and riotously pretty; it escaped into curls about her little ears and on the nape of her white neck. Her dress, too, in the extreme of the prevailing mode, was a little daring in its display of both neck and ankles.
As Daniel entered, she had discovered Emily, a gawky girl of sixteen, and was displaying a flattering interest in her that covered the embarrassed Emily with blushes. Mrs. Carter tried to save the situation by urging her daughter-in-law to come up-stairs.
“I’ve got the very best room ready for you, my dear,” she said tremulously. “You’ll want to arrange your things and come right down. We’ve waited supper for you.”
“How sweet of you, maman! I may call you maman, mayn’t I?” She laid a light hand on Mrs. Carter’s arm, raising her soft eyes to her face. “If I’m good I may call you that—toujours—toujours, n’est-ce-pas?”
“For Heaven’s sake, Fanchon, don’t talk French to mother!” her husband exclaimed. “She doesn’t know a word of it—and you can speak English.”
“I used to speak French quite a little, Willie,” Mrs. Carter protested, coloring faintly; “but I—I’m a little rusty!”