Recognition of a sort had come meanwhile from the party at the guest table. Miss Waddington, the full-blown golden girl, had seated herself and cooed an appreciative word or two about the quaintness and difference of the Marseillaise, when her eyes clutched at the two young men in the corner, whose dress made them stand out so queerly among the lost and soiled. As Bertram looked up with his glance of recognition, her eyes caught his. She glanced down at her plate.
“Eleanor,” she said, “is that a flirtation starting, or do any of us know the two men in the corner—there under that beer sign.”
Eleanor looked. Kate Waddington, her indirect gaze still on that corner table, saw the dark young man smile and bow effusively. She slipped a sidling glance at Eleanor Gray. Something curious, an intent look which seemed drawn to conceal a tumult within, had filmed itself over Eleanor’s grey eyes. But she spoke steadily.
“Why, yes. I have met them both. They 84 used to do summer work on the ranch when they were in college. I believe that the darker one—Mr. Chester—is in Uncle Edward’s law office now. I haven’t seen either of them since I went abroad.”
“I should say that this Mr. Chester fancied you, from his expression.”
“I suppose that he fancies every girl that he sees—from his expression.”
Kate Waddington caught the shade of irritation, uncommon with Eleanor, and noted it in memory. Mrs. Masters, an eager little woman who grasped at everything about her like a child, broke in:
“If you know them, and they’re really frequenters of the place, it would be fun to ask them over. Sydney used to dine here a great deal when he was young and poor, and he has such stories of the people he used to know then!”
Eleanor hesitated. Kate looked again toward Bertram, who was talking rapidly across his soup to Mark Heath, and:
“Do!” she murmured.