But as they rose from the table Fenn Whiting arrived and the story was told to him.
His face showed wonderment, even incredulity, and he had no sort of explanation to suggest.
“The only thing I can think of,” he said, “is that somebody has played a practical joke on Kimmy. You know we were pretty gay at dinner, last night, and there was a lot of guying of the prospective bridegroom. It was fun, because Kim is such an old sober-sides and so matter-of-fact, that—”
“He’s nothing of the sort,” contradicted Henrietta; “Kimball has the finest sense of humour—”
“Oh, that, yes! Doesn’t he write high-class comedies? But I mean he has no liking for personal badinage, no relish for practical jokes—”
“The kind of fun known as horse-play, I suppose you mean,” Henrietta observed, scathingly.
“Well, yes, Miss Webb, I suppose that’s just about what I do mean. Anyway, there was a lot of fooling last night that didn’t appeal strongly to our host, and though he behaved beautifully under fire, he couldn’t help showing his distaste for some of the speeches.”
“Well,” said Henrietta, impatiently, “what sort of a joke, and perpetrated by whom, would explain my brother’s present absence, and disclose his hiding-place?”
“Oh, Lord! I don’t know! I don’t know that any such thing happened,—I only caught at that as a possible way to turn.”
“Let’s turn that way, then,” and Henrietta looked at Whiting with an air of awaiting further instructions.