Mrs. Loring and Carrie were approaching; but Mrs. Gibson, who had not apparently been watching, intercepted them, and dammed the stream adroitly. Carrie was placed at the piano, and the preserve maintained inviolate. Mrs. Loring talked sweetly to her hostess, with one eye on me.
“I could not say,” I replied. “Until my friends yearn for me back again, I suppose.”
She made the response elementary, and shortened her line.
“But your friends will be sorry to lose you at all,” she replied, with a soft sparkle under her lashes. “I’m sure mother will.”
“Indeed?” I answered. “My friends conceal their desire for my presence with most generous consideration. I am allowed great liberty.”
“Oh, Mr. Butterfield, how can you say so?”
I ought not to have done it. I reproach myself for it. But the temptation! Miss Gibson was really nice, if not “quite nice.” It was unfair; but I am of no stronger fibre than my fellow-men. As I leaned forward, I knew that the landing-net was ready, and the gaff poised. I sought her eyes, and spoke low.
“Shall you be sorry to lose me, Miss Gibson?”
The colour rose faintly on her cheek. She hesitated, her eyes cast down. She had not fallen in love with me. It was the mother’s doing.
Help came from outside. Mrs. Gibson blinked her vigilance for one short moment. Carrie crowded the last few bars of music into an accelerando that would have harrowed the soul of the composer, and she and Mrs. Loring were upon us.