“It’s not a very cordial invitation,” said O’Brien, with sarcasm, “but if your brother gives his word—”
“Do you doubt me?” asked Bertram. His voice had a savage note.
“I’m in your hands,” said O’Brien, more humbly.
Presently Joyce came in. They had not heard the front door open, so that her appearance in the room was unexpected. She stood for a moment in the doorway, her fur cloak half slipping from her shoulders. Then she spoke to Susan, not hiding her surprise.
“Hulloa! Anything wrong?”
Perhaps it was their silence, some look in their eyes which suggested to her that something was “wrong.”
“You’re looking splendid again, Joyce,” said Susan, in her best “society” manner. There was always a sense of armed truce between the two girls. Bertram’s sister resented what she called the “haughty condescension” of Bertram’s wife. Joyce had not disguised from Bertram that in her opinion Susan was “a dangerous little spit-fire—with atrocious manners.”
“I’m quite well, thanks.”
Joyce glanced at O’Brien, who had risen from his chair as she had come in.
“Won’t you introduce me?” she asked Susan.