“Yes, and it’s good,” said Mr. Callender with returning cheerfulness. He was glad now that he had paid a price for it that was too large ever to be divulged to his wife.
“And the flowers?”
“What flowers?”
“The flowers you said you were going to bring me.”
“My dear girl, I never thought of them from that moment to this.”
“Then we have nothing for the center of the table but that old crumpled-up fernery,” she paused tragically. “Not even fruit! There’s another plank gone.”
“Never mind, you’re the whole platform,” said her husband with jollity. “You always manage some way.”
“I have to,” she pleaded, looking at herself approvingly in the glass. The jetted black dress set off her white neck and arms very well. She never considered herself pretty, but she had an infectious smile, brilliant teeth, and those very light gray eyes that look black under excitement. She cast a provocative glance at her husband, with mock coquetry, and then deftly avoided his outstretched arm.
“I’ve no time for you,” she said saucily. “But for goodness’ sake, Chauncey, rise to the occasion all you can!”
The two irreproachably attired men who made their entrance into the drawing-room looked at her in a manner which she certainly found encouraging. She concluded that the chances were good for making them enjoy the dinner, irrespective of its quality. She was enjoying their unspoken admiration, and the conversation also, when Mr. Warburton returned to the subject of their invitation.