“I cannot eat but little meat,
My stomach is not good.”
On the evening of Mrs. Weston’s dinner—for she held to the dinner idea
in spite of Meg’s protests—the weather was so hot that the heavy,
poorly cooked meal was appreciated by no one but the hostess, who
plumed herself that she had surprised the guests with her cuisine.
Which, indeed, was true.
They sat in the stuffy dining-room while course after course was
brought and taken away. Through the window Meg caught the scent of
roses, and could see that a breeze gently stirred the leaves of the
trees. Turning with a sigh from the temptations without, she glanced at
her aunt. The work of entertaining, with the heat, had robbed her hair
of its curl, and the damp, straight locks hung limply around her
forehead, which was beaded with perspiration.
Meg felt an impish satisfaction when she beheld the wreck. Turning, she
met Robert’s eyes, and asked, “What were you saying?”
“I was recalling a remark you made the first evening I met you,—that
you were a gourmand. You have scarcely tasted your food to-night.”
“I was several hundred years younger then,” she retorted; “but if you
had been giving the proper attention to your own plate you would not
have noticed it.”
Leaning toward her, he murmured, “I know it’s horribly rude, especially
as you are co-hostess—” she put up a deprecating hand—“but my extreme
youth and callowness will have to be my excuse.”
“Callousness, did you say?”
“You know what I said. When will this thing come to an end? I’m dying
to get out on the porch and get a whiff of air.”
“So am I,” she whispered back. “Let me see,—where are we?”
He glanced down at his plate, and then said apologetically, “Well,
really——”
“Oh, yes,” she interrupted, stirring the contents of her plate with a
fork, “this is what Delia called the ‘entry.’ Delia claims to be the
direct descendant of a famous French cook. I believe his name was Brian
Boru.”
“Ah, Delia and I are cousins. And after the ‘entry,’ what then?” he
whispered.
She counted them off on her fingers, “The ‘poonch,’ salad, dessert, and
coffee. And as you and Mr. Spencer are sociably inclined, Auntie will
forego the pleasure of withdrawing, and leaving you with your wine and
walnuts. After coffee, the porch.”
“Thank you for the information,” he said humbly.
When the dinner was finally finished, they went out on the porch. There
the conversation was general for a time, and then Robert said lightly
to Meg, “‘Come into the garden, Maud,’ and get me a flower for my
coat.”
She rose without demur, and together they strolled down the walk. Mr.
Spencer looked after their retreating forms, and then, meeting his
sister’s eyes, he deliberately winked.
That wink, while not elegant, served as an elixir to Mrs. Malloy, and
under its influence she became fairly sparkling and gay. Mrs. Weston
was astonished, for she had never seen her in such a mood, though she
had never seen her despondent. Her gayety was short-lived, however, for
Mrs. Weston killed it with a word.
“What a fine-looking boy Robert is,” she began; and then,
enthusiastically, “I think it is just lovely that he is to go into a
monastery!”
There was no response, but she prattled on. “So romantic! And he will
be such a handsome monk in his brown bath-robe! And will he have to go
barefooted, and have his pretty curly hair shaved?”
She waited a moment, and then asked gushingly, “Don’t _you_ think it
romantic?”
Mrs. Malloy’s voice was even but cold, as she replied, when forced to
do so by the direct question, “I would hardly call it romantic.”
“Oh, _wouldn’t_ you? Most people see more romance in a love affair, but
I confess that the idea of a monastery appeals to me!”
“Let’s join the youngsters,” interrupted Mr. Spencer. “They probably
are boring each other to death by now.”
Mrs. Weston started up with alacrity, but his sister, with the look of
a wounded animal in her eyes, said, “I will be there presently. I want
to enjoy these wild roses a little longer.”