“Then why don’t you, too, give public house-warmings in the family-skeleton closet?” I inquired blandly. That was really a triumph, for Kate had never talked to outsiders about the wretched business. She couldn’t even respond with what she thought; for if she said that it was always the side in the wrong which talked, she was no better off, because we, like her, had kept silence, but her father had chattered it all over town. She looked down, and I gloated over her silence, till suddenly I thought I saw a suggestion of moisture on her down-turned lashes. What I said to myself was not flattering, and moreover is not fit for publication. What I said aloud I still glow over with pride when it recurs to memory.
“Beware of the croquette!” I exclaimed hastily. “I’ve just burned my tongue horribly.” And I reached for the ice-water.
She was as quick as I had been. The Cortelyou girls are quick, but she—well, I think the ancestress who gave her those eyes must have been a little quicker.
“You spoke a moment too late,” she replied, looking up at me. “I had just done the same, and feel like weeping.” I wonder what the recording angel wrote against those two speeches?
Then suddenly Kate began to laugh.
“What is it?” I queried.
“Taste your croquette,” she suggested.
It was as cool as it should have been hot!
We both laughed so heartily that Mr. Baxter called, “Come; don’t keep such a good story to yourselves.”
“Pretend you are so engrossed that you didn’t hear,” advised Kate, simulating the utmost interest. “Aren’t we doing well?”