As Siward strolled in she raised her dainty head for an instant, smiled in silence, and resumed a study of her fiancé's game.
A moment later, when Quarrier had emerged brilliantly from the mêlée, she looked up again, triumphantly, supposing Siward was lingering somewhere waiting to join her. And she was just a trifle surprised and disappointed to find him nowhere in sight. She had wished him to observe the brilliancy of Mr. Quarrier's game.
But Siward, outside on the veranda, was saying at that moment to his hostess: “I shall be very glad to read my mother's letter at any time you choose.”
“It must be later, Stephen. I'm to cut in when Kemp sends for me. He has a lot of letters to attend to.... Tell me, what do you think of Sylvia Landis?”
“I like her, of course,” he replied pleasantly.
Grace Ferrall stood thinking a moment: “That sketch you made proved a great success, didn't it?” And she laughed under her breath.
“Did it? I thought Mr. Quarrier seemed annoyed—”
“Really? What a muff that cousin of mine is. He's such a muff, you know, that the very sight of his pointed beard and pompadour hair and his complacency sets me in fidgets to stir him up.”
“I don't think you'd best use me for the stick next time,” said Siward. “He's not my cousin you know.”
Mrs. Ferrall shrugged her boyish shoulders: “By the way”—she said curiously—“who was that girl?”