Sylvia was gazing at herself in the mirror, wondering at the look on her own face. “I don’t know what to do next!” she cried.
“The Lord takes care of children and fools,” said Harriet. “I hope He’s on His job!” Then the luncheon gong sounded, and they went downstairs.
There was a new man, who had arrived the night before. He was named Pendleton, and Sylvia found herself placed next to him. She suspected that he had arranged this, and was bored by the prospect, and purposely talked with Charlie Peyton on her other side. Towards the end of the meal a servant came in and whispered to the hostess, who rose suddenly with the exclamation, “Frank Shirley is here!” Amid the general silence that fell Sylvia began suddenly to eat with assiduity.
The hostess went out, and returned after a minute or so with Frank at her heels. “Do sit down,” she was saying. “At least have some of this sherbet.”
“I’ve had my luncheon,” he replied; “I supposed you’d have finished.” But he seated himself at the table, as requested. There was a general pause, everybody expecting some explanation; but he volunteered none.
Opposite to Sylvia was Belle Johnston, an insipid young person who had a reputation for wit, for which she made other people pay. “Did you think it looked like rain, Mr. Shirley?” she inquired. Sylvia could have destroyed her.
“The weather is very pleasant,” said Frank. No one could be sure whether he was imperturbable, or had missed the jest altogether.
Harriet, seeing her friend’s alarming appetite and discomfort, stepped in now to save the situation. “I hope you brought me a message from your sister,” she remarked. “I am expecting one.”
But Frank would have none of any such devices. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I haven’t brought it.”
Sylvia was furious. Had he no tact, no social sense at all—not even any common gratitude? He ought to have waited outside, where he would have been less conspicuous; instead of sitting there, dumb as an oyster, looking at her and obviously waiting for her! Sooner or later everyone must notice.