She thought he looked ill. Your aunt told me in a letter that you had heard nothing."
"Not a thing. I've been afraid ever since I came here that I'd run up against him. He and I had an awful scene"—oh, Lord, why had he recalled that time to her?—"I guess he hates me, all right."
She had begun to set the supper things on a small table. He came to her and touched her arm timidly. "Forgive me, Alayne. I shouldn't have spoken of him."
She looked up with continued composure. "It doesn't upset me to speak of Eden. He is nothing to me now. I don't believe I should feel greatly disturbed if I met him face to face. Now do sit down, Finch, and try to imagine that this food is not so sketchy. If only I had known you were coming . . ."
How hungry the boy was! She talked incessantly to cover the fact, to give him a chance to eat without interruption. He swept the plates clean, and drank cup after cup of coffee. Over coffee and cigarettes he gave her news of each separate member of the family. Finally he told her in detail of the last performance of the orchestra, of the wild night in the streets afterward. He began to laugh. Finch's laughter was infectious. Alayne laughed too, and as he imitated the maudlin outpourings of the different players they could no longer restrain themselves, and laughed till they were exhausted. Alayne had not given way to such primitive emotions since leaving Jalna, had had no impulse to do so.
Rosamond Trent, returning, discovered them thus abandoned to hilarity. She was astonished to find this lank youth sprawling in the Chinese-red leather armchair, a fair lock dangling over his forehead, making himself tremendously at home. She was still more astonished to find Alayne deeply flushed, weak with laughter.
Finch got to his feet, embarrassed by the arrival of the sophisticated-looking middle-aged woman whose small bright green hat looked as though it had been moulded to her head.
"Rosamond," said Alayne, "my brother-in-law, Finch Whiteoak."
