And not only did she go swinging off in this carefree fashion, but toward six o'clock she telephoned she was at the Doanes and Henry and his mother—the little old lady she had met on the train the day she arrived—wanted her to stay to supper. He would bring her home early in the evening. There would be a moon—Marcia need not worry.
Marcia had not thought of worrying until that minute, but now, in spite of knowing Sylvia was safe and in good hands she began, paradoxically enough, to worry madly.
Her heart would palpitate, her hand tremble while she spread the cloth and prepared the supper; and when she could not put off the dreaded and yet anticipated moment any longer, timidly as a girl she summoned Stanley Heath to the small, round table.
"Sylvia isn't coming," she explained, all blushes. "She telephoned she was going to stay over in town."
They seated themselves.
It was the first time they had ever been alone at a meal and the novelty of finding themselves opposite one another awed them into silence.
"Would you—do you care for cheese soufflé?" stammered Marcia.
"Thank you."
"Perhaps you don't like cheese."