CHAPTER VIII.“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’tyouthink 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’tyou? 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.”
“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’tyouthink 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’tyou? 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.”