He was aroused from these reflections by an incident. Some one had leaped over the railing which separated the stand from the field and stood before Cynthia,—a tanned and smiling young man in gray and crimson. His honest eyes were alight with an admiration that was unmistakable to the painter—perhaps to Cynthia also, for a glow that might have been of annoyance or anger, and yet was like the color of the mountain sunrise, answered in her cheek. Mr. Worthington reached out a large brown hand and seized the girl's as it lay on her lap.
“Hello, Cynthia,” he cried, “I've been looking for you all day. I thought you might be here. Where were you?”
“Where did you look?” answered Cynthia, composedly, withdrawing her hand.
“Everywhere,” said Bob, “up and down the street, all through the hotel. I asked Lem Hallowell, and he didn't know where you were. I only got here last night myself.”
“I was in the meeting-house,” said Cynthia.
“The meeting-house!” he echoed. “You don't mean to tell me that you listened to that silly speech of Sutton's?”
This remark, delivered in all earnestness, was the signal for uproarious laughter from Mr. Dodd and others sitting near by, attending earnestly to the conversation.
Cynthia bit her lip.
“Yes, I did,” she said; “but I'm sorry now.”
“I should think you would be,” said Bob; “Sutton's a silly, pompous old fool. I had to sit through dinner with him. I believe I could represent the district better myself.”