and sat beside him—helping when she could to relieve the awkwardness of his left-handed service, for it was his right arm which had been broken.
It was when she brought his coffee, a second cup, with Sampson out of the room, that he surprised a look in her eyes—a mother-look of brooding tenderness. It waked something in his heart for her that had never been there before. Not the feeling he gave Hildegarde, but a wistful longing for what Sally could give, gentle ministration and devoted service.
Winslow, coming in and seeing the two of them there together, was gripped by jealousy. But he did not show it.
"Going to town with me this morning?" he asked Sally.
"Anything special?"
"Decorations for the dance. I'd like to have your taste. Sorry you can't be with us on the great night, Merry."
"Oh, but he can," Sally said. "It will do him good. You didn't think we were going to leave him out of it did you, Neale?"
"I really hadn't thought about it," with a touch of insolence.
"Merry's always the life of the party."
Merry settled it by saying, "I am afraid I shan't be up to a thing like that."
Yet, he did go to the dance. Willingly. Gladly. And not because Sally wanted him, but because of Hildegarde.
Miss Anne had insisted that Hildegarde must have something exceptionally charming in a costume.
