"I thought mamma sent you to get Irene out of the way," she said, imperiously.
"I did my best, Bertha," Elaine answered, gently. "I persuaded her to go and play games in the parlor. Unfortunately Mr. Kenmore came up as she was going, and she playfully carried him off with her. I am sure he will return to us directly. He regards Irene as the merest child."
"She is as old as you were when she was——" Bertha sneered in her sister's ear, making the last word so low it was inaudible.
Beautiful Elaine's cool, white cheeks crimsoned, then grew paler than before. She answered not a word.
"Hush, Bertha. Are you crazy, making such remarks in this crowded room?" whispered her mother, in angry haste.
"I shall not be answerable for what I say or do unless you get my lover away from that wretched girl," the dark-eyed beauty retorted furiously in her ear.
"Come, then, let us go and see their games," Mrs. Brooke answered, soothingly, to allay the young lady's violent rage. "He will leave Irene and come to you as soon as he sees you."
The three moved away to the crowded parlor where the girls from twelve to sixteen, and the lads from sixteen to twenty, were enjoying themselves, to the top of their bent. Having exhausted everything else, they had determined on having a wedding. Mr. Kenmore being the most grown-up of the gentlemen, was selected for the groom, and Irene Brooke for the bride.