“Mr. McPherson,” Irene repeated, beginning to notice the flowers, for which she did not really care as Rena did. “What a delightful old man he must be. I hope we may see him, and perhaps we ought to send him a note of thanks.”
Rena did not respond. There was a strange feeling of unrest stirring in her heart as she thought of the attention which was unquestionably offered because of herself.
“I almost wish I were myself,” she was thinking, when Mrs. Parks, who was standing in the door between the two rooms, asked if there was anything she could do.
She spoke to Irene, who replied:
“No, thanks; or, yes, if your maid would be so good as to bring me a glass of ice-water. I am very thirsty.”
At the mention of maid Mrs. Parks looked flurried a moment, then in her straightforward way, she said:
“Certainly, yes; I have no maid. I do my own work, Charlotte Anne and I—Charlotte Anne is my daughter. I don’t know where she is, not to come and be introduced. I will get you some water—not ice. We don’t have it here in the country, but our well is the coldest and best in town.”
She left the room for the water, and the moment she was gone, Rena exclaimed:
“Irene, for pity’s sake, drop your fine-lady airs, and don’t go to calling for maids and ice-water. You might have known there were none here.”
Irene laughed and said: