Part 18 (1/2)

”He is coming out on the eleven-thirty, Sara,” said the girl nervously, ”unless you will send the motor in for him. The body of his car is being changed and it's in the shop. He must have been jesting when he said he would pay for the petrol--I should have said gasoline.”

Sara laughed. ”You will know him better, my dear,” she said. ”Leslie is very light-hearted.”

”He suggested bringing a friend,” went on Hetty hurriedly. ”A Mr.

Booth, the portrait painter.”

”I met him in Italy. He is charming. You will like HIM, too, Hetty.”

The emphasis did not escape notice.

”It seems that he is spending a fortnight in the village, this Mr.

Booth, painting spring lambs for rest and recreation, Mr. Leslie says.”

”Then he is at our very gates,” said Sara, looking up suddenly.

”I wonder if he can be the man I saw yesterday at the bridge,”

mused Hetty. ”Is he tall?”

”I really can't say. He's rather vague. It was six or seven years ago.”

”It was left that Mr. Wrandall is to come out on the eleven-thirty,”

explained Hetty. ”I thought you wouldn't like sending either of the motors in.”

”And Mr. Booth?”

”We are to send for him after Mr. Wrandall arrives. He is stopping at the inn, wherever that may be.”

”Poor fellow!” sighed Sara, with a grimace. ”I am sure he will like us immensely if he has been stopping at the inn.”

Hetty stood staring down at the blazing logs for a full minute before giving expression to the thought that troubled her.

”Sara,” she said, meeting her friend's eyes with a steady light in her own, ”why did Mr. Wrandall ask for me instead of you? It is you he is coming to visit, not me. It is your house. Why should--”

”My dear,” said Sara glibly, ”I am merely his sister-in-law. It wouldn't be necessary to ask me if he should come. He knows he is welcome.”

”Then why should he feel called upon to--”

”Some men like to telephone, I suppose,” said the other coolly.

”I wonder if you will ever understand how I feel about--about certain things, Sara.”

”What, for instance?”

”Well, his very evident interest in me,” cried the girl hotly. ”He sends me flowers,--this is the second box this week,--and he is so kind, so VERY friendly, Sara, that I can't bear it--I really can't.”

Mrs. Wrandall stared at her. ”You can't very well send him about his business,” she said, ”unless he becomes more than friendly.

Now, can you?”

”But it seems so--so horrible, so beastly,” groaned the girl.

Sara faced her squarely. ”See here, Hetty,” she said levelly, ”we have made our bed, you and I. We must lie in it--together. If Leslie Wrandall chooses to fall in love with you, that is his affair, not ours. We must face every condition. In plain words, we must play the game.”