“Goodness!” said Mrs. Callender, hastily completing her preparations. “Yes! we’re coming. You can send Ned down now to crack some more ice, and then we’ll be ready.”
But she turned to say, “I think someone ought to go home with him.”
“This is what I call comfort,” said Porter as they sat hilariously around the Flemish oak table, eating the cool viands and drinking anew from the iced bowl, a lacy square of white linen and a glass vase of scarlet nasturtiums gracing the center of the board. “Clear, clear comfort!”
“I feel at peace with all mankind—even with Atwood, who believes in an imperial policy.”
“Hush,” said Mrs. Callender, “who is that on the piazza?”
The door opened, a head was thrust in, and a shout arose.
“Martindale! Martindale, by all that’s holy! Come in, we’re expecting you.”
“That’s mighty good of you,” said the intruder, who seemed to be all red hair and smiles. “All the same, you don’t seem to have left me much of anything to eat.” He drew up a chair to the table and sat down.
“Where’s your wife?” asked Mrs. Weir.
“Oh, she had a headache this evening. I went out for a ride, and when I came back I saw you were on deck over here, so I thought I’d look in and see what was up.” He stopped, oblivious of the renewed laughter, and stared at Rivers. “Why, when did you get here? I saw a light in your house ten minutes ago. I nearly dropped in on you.”