“Headaches of the very worst kind,” acknowledged Marjorie. Her eyes roved about the room, which she had known so well when her aunt had owned the house; even some of the furniture, many pieces of which had been sold with the house, were still in use in the drawing-room, and she had much ado to keep back a rush of tears at the recollections their presence gave her.
“I am told headaches are the bane of existence as one advances in years,” said Pauline sweetly. “Why, father!” as a tall man entered the room. “What brings you home at this hour?”
“A moment’s leisure,” he replied. “How do you do, Miss Fordyce,” shaking hands cordially with Janet, and turning toward Marjorie. There was a moment’s awkward pause, then Pauline remembered her manners.
“Miss Langdon, father.”
Representative J. Calhoun-Cooper stepped forward and held out his hand as Marjorie rose and advanced to meet him, “Miss Marjorie Langdon?” he inquired, and she wondered faintly at the concentration of his gaze.
“Yes,” she answered, and her large hazel-gray eyes smiled back at him with friendly interest. How came so distinguished looking a man to have such an impossible family?
“If I am not mistaken, you are related to Madame Yvonett, are you not?” he asked, and again his keen scrutiny swept over her.
“She is my great-aunt.”
“I gathered that was the relationship; please give her my kind remembrances and say that I hope to call soon.” Calhoun-Cooper turned back to his wife. “Miss Langdon is a great-granddaughter of Hugh Pemberton, who gave my father his start in life,” he explained. “You must show every hospitality to Miss Langdon, mother.”
Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper, divided between vexation at being called “mother” in public by her usually thoughtful husband, and bewilderment at Marjorie’s suddenly increased importance, clutched the tea-tray in despair.