“I was going to have our lunch served up here,” she said, “but I think I won’t. The dining-room down-stairs is charming—and if anyone comes in that I know—I shan’t care—as long as I’m going back.”
The mammoth fireplace in the old dining-room had been restored to ancient uses. Martha and her husband had recognized its value as a background, so meat was roasted on the spit—a turkey to-day as it happened. The tables were lighted by high white candles—and there were old hunting prints on the walls.
The food was delicious, and having settled her problems, Edith showed herself delightfully gay and girlish. There was heliotrope in a Sheffield bowl on their table. “Martha grows old-fashioned flowers in pots,” Edith said. She picked out a spray for him and he put it in his coat. “It’s my favorite.” She told him about Delafield’s orchids. “Think of all those months,” she said, “and he never knew the flowers I like.”
There were other people in the room, but it was not until the end of the meal that anyone came whom Edith recognized.
“Eloise Harper—and she sees me,” was her sudden remark. “Now watch me carry it off.”
She stood up and waved to a party of four people, two men and two women, who stood in the door.
They saw her at once, and the effect of their coming was a stampede.
“Blessed child,” said the girl who was in the lead, “have you eloped? And is this the man?”
“This is Mr. Barnes,” said Edith, “who comes from my uncle. I am to go back. But I have had a corking adventure.”
Only Baldy knew what was in her heart, and how hard it was to face them. But on the surface she was as sparkling as the rest of them. “I shall probably be in the papers again to-morrow morning. You know you won’t be able to keep it, Eloise.”