“No, I am not, but I know city people like to find fresh flowers in their rooms when they go into the country,” Craig replied, and then, as it was nearly time for his mother’s train from East Ridgefield, he went to meet her.
As he was walking with her up the long hill from the station he told her of the expected arrivals, and asked if she had ever seen the ladies.
“Once when I called on some friends at the United States, in Saratoga, the mother and daughter were in the parlors, and were pointed out to me. I remember thinking them very showily dressed, and that Mrs. Tracy’s diamond ear-rings were quite too large for good taste. The daughter had half a dozen young men around her,” was Mrs. Mason’s reply, and her chin gave a tilt in the air, which Craig knew was indicative of her disapproval of the Tracys.
Craig told her of Mrs. Taylor’s elation on account of her distinguished guests, and of the removal of the cream jug and sugar bowl from the table to the salon.
“Boston is nowhere, and we may come down to two-tined forks and plated spoons,” he said laughingly, while his mother laughed in return.
She had no anxiety about the forks or the spoons, but she was a little anxious with regard to the young lady, of whose outrageous coquetry she had heard a great deal, and, mother-like, she dropped a word of warning.
“No danger for me,” Craig said. “Forewarned is forearmed, but I am glad she is coming. We want something to brighten us up.”
Meanwhile Mark Hilton had also made the tour of the west piazza, and glanced in at the table with its centrepiece of fleurs-de-lis and ferns.
“I didn’t know you had so much taste,” he said to Sarah, who was putting some napkins at the plates.
“’Twasn’t me; ’twas Mr. Mason thought of it,” Sarah replied, and Mark was conscious of a feeling of not wishing to be outdone by Craig.