There was absolutely nothing in it, he
assured the Martels, a conviction that assorted strangely with the fact
that he devoured the columns in the daily papers devoted to the doings of
the social elect, and waded through endless lists under the caption
"Among Those Present." Every hour in the day he invented a new scheme for
seeing Eleanor, which pride alone prevented him from carrying out. He
wrote her a dozen notes, all of which he tore up; he went out of his way
to pass through the streets where he might catch a glimpse of her, and
seized the slightest excuse for errands to the Bartlett house. But the
days of her holiday slipped away, and he neither saw nor heard from her.
Each morning at breakfast Mr. Martel would say hopefully, "Well, Eleanor
will surely grace our humble abode to-day," or, "Something tells me my
lady-bird will come to-day!" And each evening Quin would rush home from
work buoyed up by the hope that he might find her.
"I bet she'd come to-day if she knew Captain Phipps was going to be
here," said Myrna one morning, wagging her head wisely.
"What's that got to do with it?" Rose asked sharply.
"They're sweethearts," said Myrna, with the frightful astuteness of
twelve.
Pages:
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178