“There ain’t no dinner,” said the cook.
“No dinner! What do you mean, Catherine?”
“Not the sign of a thing has come this whole blessed day, ma’am; and me a-waitin’ here with my ironin’ half done, in the middle of the week. Not an egg nor a potato is there in the house, even.”
Mrs. Callender stopped, confounded. The shops were all closed at that hour.
“Why, I saw Jack Rand myself, after he had given the order!” she exclaimed, and then—she knew: like lightning her association with the sheet of blue writing-paper was revealed to her; on the other side of it was written the address of a newcomer who lived across the track at the other end of the village. The marketing had gone there!
“Well, I never heard of such a thing!” she commented blankly, and, as usual, laughed.
It was but a brief ten minutes later that her husband was presenting his guests to her—they had come! She had been but hoping against hope that they would not.
“Cynthia, I want to introduce Mr. Warburton and Mr. Kennard. I have persuaded them to dine with us to-night.”
“It was awfully good of your husband to invite us,” said Mr. Warburton, who was the elder, pleasant-faced and gray-haired, with the refined accent and accustomed manner of a gentleman. “I hope we’ll not inconvenience you, Mrs. Callender.”
“No, I hope we’re not inconveniencing you,” murmured the other, who looked nineteen and was twenty-nine, who spoke from somewhere down in his throat and blushed with every word.