So instead of answering her brother’s question, she sat a little straighter in her chair, and compressed her lips.

He smiled faintly at that and added, “Anyhow she said she’d be along in a minute or two.”

“Oh,” said Miss Wollaston, “you have wakened her then.  I would have suggested that the poor child be left asleep this morning.”

Now he saw that she had something to tell him.  “Nothing went wrong last night after I left, I hope.”

“Oh, not wrong,” Miss Wollaston conceded, “only the Whitneys went of course, when you did and the Byrnes, and Wallace Hood, but Portia Stanton and that new husband of hers stayed.  It was his doing, I suppose.  You might have thought he was waiting all the evening for just that thing to happen.  They went up to Paula’s studio—­Paula invited me, of course, but I excused myself—­and they played and sang until nearly two o’clock this morning.  It was all perfectly natural, I suppose.  And still I did think that Paula might have sung earlier, down in the drawing-room when you asked her to.”

“She was perfectly right to refuse.”  He caught his sister up rather short on that, “I shouldn’t have asked her.  It was very soon after dinner.  They weren’t a musical crowd anyway, except Novelli.  It’s utterly unfair to expect a person like Paula to perform unless she happens to be in the mood for it.  At that she’s extremely amiable about it; never refuses unless she has some real reason.  What her reason was last night, I don’t know, but you may be perfectly sure it was sufficient.”

He would have realized that he was protesting too much even if he had not read that comment in his sister’s face.  But somehow he couldn’t have pulled himself up but for old Nat’s appearance with the platter of ham and eggs and the first installment of the wheat cakes.  He was really hungry and he settled down to them in silence.

And, watching him between the little bites of dry toast and sips of coffee, Miss Wollaston talked about Portia Stanton.  Everybody, indeed, was talking about Portia these days but Miss Wollaston had a special privilege.  She had known Portia’s mother rather well,—­Naomi Rutledge Stanton, the suffrage leader, she was—­and she had always liked and admired Portia; liked her better than the younger and more sensational daughter, Rose.

Miss Wollaston hoped, hoped with all her heart that Portia had not made a tragic mistake in this matter of her marriage.  She couldn’t herself quite see how a sensible girl like Portia could have done anything so reckless as to marry a romantic young Italian pianist, ten years at least her junior.  It couldn’t be denied that the experiment seemed to have worked well so far.  Portia certainly seemed happy enough last night; contented.  There was a sort of glow about her there never was before.  But the question was how long would it last.  How long would it be before those big brown Italian eyes began looking soulfully at somebody else; somebody more....