“You know what I said. When will this thing come to an end? I’m dying to get out on the porch and get a whiff of air.”
“So am I,” she whispered back. “Let me see,—where are we?”
He glanced down at his plate, and then said apologetically, “Well, really——”
“Oh, yes,” she interrupted, stirring the contents of her plate with a fork, “this is what Delia called the ‘entry.’ Delia claims to be the direct descendant of a famous French cook. I believe his name was Brian Boru.”
“Ah, Delia and I are cousins. And after the ‘entry,’ what then?” he whispered.
She counted them off on her fingers, “The ‘poonch,’ salad, dessert, and coffee. And as you and Mr. Spencer are sociably inclined, Auntie will forego the pleasure of withdrawing, and leaving you with your wine and walnuts. After coffee, the porch.”
“Thank you for the information,” he said humbly.
When the dinner was finally finished, they went out on the porch. There the conversation was general for a time, and then Robert said lightly to Meg, “‘Come into the garden, Maud,’ and get me a flower for my coat.”
She rose without demur, and together they strolled down the walk. Mr. Spencer looked after their retreating forms, and then, meeting his sister’s eyes, he deliberately winked.
That wink, while not elegant, served as an elixir to Mrs. Malloy, and under its influence she became fairly sparkling and gay. Mrs. Weston was astonished, for she had never seen her in such a mood, though she had never seen her despondent. Her gayety was short-lived, however, for Mrs. Weston killed it with a word.