“Yes, my daughter is going to entertain some of her friends this afternoon; it will be rather a juvenile affair; but perhaps you would enjoy seeing the young folks amuse themselves; if so, come home with me and look on for a while.”
“Thank you, I shall be happy to do so,” promptly returned John Hubbard, with a vicious gleam of his ghastly teeth.
And thus it happened that just as Allison Brewster came downstairs to receive her first guests she was confronted by “the man who always gave her a chill,” and who now drove all the brightness from her face, and made her feel that her party was doubly spoiled by his presence and Gerald’s absence.
“Why couldn’t papa have sent him, instead of Gerald, on that errand rather than bring him here, where he isn’t wanted?” she said to herself, with a feeling of resentment.
But she was a well-bred little lady, and, bowing courteously to her self-invited guest, she thanked him politely for the bouquet of magnificent roses with which he presented her, but which she quietly handed to a servant, charging her to put them in water, and—never thought of them again.
But upon her breast—nestling among the cascade of filmy lace that trimmed her spotless dress of India lawn—there was a lovely cluster of forget-me-nots, which, with a thrill of delight—in spite of her disappointment at his enforced absence—she had culled from Gerald’s dainty basket, which was now standing upon the dressing-case in her room, to gladden no eyes but her own.
Almost unconsciously her hand fluttered caressingly among the delicate blossoms, even while she stood talking with John Hubbard; then, all at once, glancing out upon the lawn, she gave a little cry of joyous surprise and sprang forward to meet—Gerald himself!