The hall was vacant, but he saw a stream of light coming out of the library, and headed violently for it. William was alone, huddled in an easy chair, smoking and reading. Mr. Carter came in and shut the door. Then he advanced on his son with a face of thunder.
“William Henry Carter,” said he, “you’ve married a dancer—a French dancer!”
William, overtaken by the unexpected, laid down his book and stared. But his father only roared the louder. He seemed to think that his son had grown suddenly deaf.
“Do you hear me, sir?” he bellowed fiercely. “You’ve married a—a dyed-in-the-wool ballet-dancer!”
VIII
It was an hour later when Miranda, looking very dark and showing the whites of her eyes to an alarming extent, opened the front door for Mrs. Carter, Emily and Leigh.
“Mist’ Carter says, please, ma’am, yo’ come inter de libr’ry,” said the colored servitress in a sympathetic undertone.
Mrs. Carter cast an apprehensive look at her daughter.
“I guess you two had better go up-stairs,” she whispered.
Emily nodded, and started for the staircase, but Mr. Carter shouted from the library: