There is this to be said for the Cortelyou women, whether friends or enemies: I’ve never seen one show the white feather in action. Just as I was preparing to collapse under this accumulation of horrors, Kate turned to me, with the friendliest of smiles, and murmured,—
“It’s ghastly, but every one except Mrs. Baxter is watching us.”
I took a furtive glimpse of the other guests. They were all pretending to talk, but all clearly were missing nothing of our tableau vivant. Wasn’t she clever to have seen it so quickly?
“They hope we’ll make a show of the family for their benefit,” I growled.
“Can’t we—” suggested Kate, and then hesitated, and blushed very prettily. The Cortelyou women are plucky, but Kate was only nineteen.
I never was good as leader, but at the shafts I’m steady and reliable. “Of course we can,” I responded, won by that blush.
“Don’t frown, then,” smiled Kate.
“I was not frowning at you,” I protested.
“But they’ll think you are,” she replied.
I tried to appear as pleased as Kate so successfully pretended to be, and she rewarded me with an encouraging “That’s better,” and a very refreshing look at her eyes.