“Florence, Mr. Amidon; my sister, Mrs. Torrington, Jerry.”
Mrs. Torrington, a tall, dark woman in her early thirties, graciously assured him that she had delayed her departure from town until he could be produced for her edification.
“I guess you wouldn’t ’a’ missed much,” said Jerry, hating himself at once for that unnecessary a, from which he had honestly believed himself permanently emancipated. He shook hands with Mrs. Copeland and then with Nan—without looking at her. The butler announced dinner, and he found himself moving toward the dining-room beside Mrs. Torrington. In her ignorance of the darkness in which he had immersed himself, she treated him quite as though they were in the habit of meeting at dinners. It was to his credit that he saw at once that she was a superior person, though he did not know until later that, as the wife of a distinguished engineer, she was known in many capitals as a brilliant conversationalist, with a reputation for meeting difficult situations. On the way down the hall she spoke of Russia—she had been telling a Russian story at the moment of his appearance—and her manner expressed a flattering assumption that he, of course, was quite familiar with the social life of the Russian capital.
It was the most informal of dinners; Jerry found himself placed between Mrs. Torrington and Mrs. Copeland, which left Nan at Eaton’s right. This arrangement had not been premeditated, but he saw only the darkest significance in Nan’s juxtaposition to Eaton. She seemed unwontedly subdued, and averted her eyes when their gaze met.
“This is the nicest party you’ve had for me, Cecil,” Mrs. Torrington was saying,—“cozy and comfortable so everybody can talk.”
Jerry hoped they would talk! (He was watching Mrs. Torrington guardedly to see which fork she chose for her caviar.) Eaton was unusually grave; Mrs. Copeland seemed preoccupied; Jerry’s heart ached at the near presence of Nan. But at a hint from Fanny, Mrs. Torrington returned to her experiences abroad, and soon had them all interested and amused. Jerry quickly fell victim to her charm; he had never before met a woman of her distinction and poise. Even her way of speaking was different from anything he had been accustomed to—crisp, fluent, musical. Her good humor was infectious and she quickly won them all to self-forgetfulness. Mrs. Copeland described an encounter she had witnessed between a Russian and a Frenchman in a Roman pension where she had once spent a winter—an incident that culminated in a hasty exchange of wine-glasses across the table.
“Ah, Jerry,” remarked Eaton casually; “that leads us naturally to your pleasing adventures down the road. Florence, if you urge Mr. Amidon he will tell you of most amazing experiences he has had right here at home in the pursuit of food.”
Mrs. Torrington’s fine eyes emphasized her appeal. They would all tell of the worst food they had ever eaten, she said; she had spent years collecting information.
“You may lapse into the vernacular, Jerry,” Eaton added encouragingly; “we will all understand that you are falling into it merely in a spirit of realism.”
“This is tough,” said Jerry, turning to Mrs. Torrington. “Your brother has told me a hundred times to cut out those stories.”