eyes in the room. And the whisper went around "Carew's daughter."
Vivid, swift in her movements, with an effect of restrained high spirits that gleamed in her eye and curled her lip, Hildegarde was transformed. A cat in the wind! A cat in the wind! Miss Anne had not heard Delia's phrase, but if she had she would have confirmed it. She was aware in Hildegarde—of the forces which had always swayed Louis—modified, perhaps, but to be reckoned with none the less, and to fear.
She was half-afraid now, though Hildegarde sitting opposite her was saying, mildly enough, "Did you order for us?" and receiving a negative answer had demanded of Sally, "Shall we have the table d'hôte? I'm starved."
They had, they explained, been walking for hours. "With Merry and Bobby Gresham," Sally elucidated. "Hildegarde was a whirl—with her eyes under that hat. Bobby is simply limp with love for her."
"Sally," her mother reproved.
"Well, you know what I mean. Mad about her."
Miss Anne glanced at her niece. Not a sign of embarrassment. How the child had changed. In three weeks. Taking admiration with an air as if she had always been used to it. And before that there had been no lovers, except Merry, and that country boy, Crispin.
Which reminded her: "A letter came to you, Hildegarde, just before I left. Special delivery. I intended to bring it, but forgot it. I think it was from Crispin Harlowe."
"Crispin?"
