“What is troubling you, Cousin Jane?” he inquired, replacing a scarf about her shoulders.
“The perversity of human nature,” retorted Mrs. Ogden, and he laughed, while wondering at the concentration of her gaze. Mrs. Ogden sighed again; Barclay was undeniably handsome, but so was James Patterson in a big, fine way, and she infinitely preferred the dogged will power and driving force indicated in his rugged features, to Barclay’s sensitive, high-strung temperament.
Mrs. Ogden liked to have good-looking people about her, and her gaze rested on her husband and Professor Norcross with satisfaction; in their way each was a credit to her box party. Ethel, seated in the farther corner of the box, was unaware of her cousin’s scrutiny as she kept up an animated conversation with Professor Norcross. She had learned in the hard school of necessity to repress her emotions, and as she talked on indifferent subjects, the professor never guessed the effort it cost her, nor how maddening was the desire to turn and look at Julian Barclay.
After the first shock of her mother’s postscript, with its suggestion of crime and treachery, Ethel had pulled herself together and with the shrewd common sense of her New England forbears, had reasoned out her doubts and suspicions. The murder of Dwight Tilghman, the presence of Julian Barclay on the same train, the presence of her mother in the Atlanta station at the time the crime was committed, the hand at the window grasping a suspicious-looking paper, the similarity of the ring on the hand in the window and the one given her by Julian Barclay, the arrival of her mother’s letter on the day Barclay had given her the ring, could be—should be, in her loyal mind,—simply coincidences, to be explained away when she had a talk with Julian Barclay.
She had dressed early and gone downstairs hoping for an opportunity to see Barclay alone before dinner, but he had been the last to appear, and Mrs. Ogden had hurried them off to the theater immediately after coffee had been served. On entering the box she had expected that Barclay would occupy the seat directly behind her, but on turning around she found him standing by the chair nearest Mrs. Ogden. He caught her eye, bowed, and sat down by Mrs. Ogden.
Ethel had flushed painfully; a look, a smile from her had always brought him to her side. Could it be that he was intentionally avoiding her? The thought stung, and turning her back on Barclay, she greeted Professor Norcross with so brilliant a smile that he was conscious of an accelerated pulse. But her false gaiety had waned with the progress of the play, and finally she sat silent in her chair and listened to Norcross, his voice coming to her as from a long way off.
The amateur performance was given for the benefit of the Associated Charities, and Washington society had taken tickets and turned out en masse. The boxes were filled with members of the Diplomatic Corps and Cabinet officers, while justices and men prominent in both Houses of Congress entertained parties in the orchestra.
“The play is good,” announced Walter Ogden. “But the entr’acte are fearfully long. Who is that bowing to you, Ethel, there, across the further aisle in the orchestra?”
Ethel looked vainly in the direction he pointed. “Do you mean Jim Patterson?” she asked, encountering the Congressman’s eyes.
Patterson rose, excused himself to his neighbors, and clambering over them, made his way up the aisle.