Every one looked up on Charley’s entrance. As for that young man, he looked neither to the right nor to the left. “Mr. Smith will be down presently,” said he to Mrs. Carter. As he strode around the room to take his chair, his firm-set lips wore a rather dogged expression, as though he would warn us all that, so far as he was concerned, the conversation was ended; and, hastily taking his seat, he began a vigorous attack on his soup, as if to overtake the rest of the company. Somehow every one was silent, and the isolated and rather rapid click of Charley’s spoon was distinctly audible. Alice smiled, and conversation beginning to spring up around the table, “I fear your soup is cold,” she began.
“The soup was cold?” asked he, looking up. “I am very sorry.”
“I didn’t say that,” replied she, quickly. “I remarked that I was afraid yours was cold.”
“Mine?” asked he, looking puzzled. “Why?”
“You were detained so long up-stairs.”
“Oh!” said he, renewing the assault upon the soup. “You are right,” he added; “it is ratherish cool.”
Alice was foiled. “I believe Mrs. Poythress called you.”
Charley leaned forward.
“Nothing serious, I hope?” asked Mrs. Poythress.
All eyes were fixed on Charley, every ear intent to hear his answer to this question, which Mrs. Poythress alone had ventured to ask. For a moment this master of fence and parry stood confounded; but only for a moment. “Nothing to speak of,” replied he, with careless simplicity, and, leaning back in his chair, he glanced at Uncle Dick. Richard, briskly, though with averted face, came to remove the soup-plate, and then hurried out of the room to have a quiet chuckle.