Josiah’s face was scarlet. He had need of just this outburst for a bath of temper wherein to wash away the day’s accumulated irritations.
“Suppose the chauffeur doesn’t know, eh?” he half-sneered, half-shouted. “Then—find out!”
The door shut behind the boy....
The shower of temper had had the wished-for result. At once, Josiah was in an excellent mood. He dropped into the chair that had held Quincy, spread himself amply and began to talk—convivially, cleverly, cheerfully, as was his way when he desired to overcome an earlier impression. The others joined him, now, with truer participation. And so, half an hour sped.
Then once more, there was a step in the hall.
The door opened, and Sarah entered. She wore furs, despite the season. A bewildering creation of flowers and feathers, rimmed in black velvet, sat square upon her head. As she stepped in, Josiah jumped with unwonted speed from his comfortable place. This, in itself, was enough to cause Sarah to stand still and look.
“Adelaide,” said Josiah, without greeting his wife, “go upstairs and see if Quincy’s in his room.”
He spoke nervously, quickly, sweetly withal. Rhoda and Jonas rose, seeking his eyes, impelled also by a sudden thought. Even Marsden smiled uncomfortably.
Adelaide flew out, on her mission. And Sarah, flinging her furs aside, stepped forward, as if to ease some necessary action. The ominous, knowing concert of all these eyes brought panic to her ignorance.