Carrie's voice broke in on our philandering.
"If," she said coldly, "you two people can be pried apart with a crowbar for a sufficient length of time, we will motor to Bubbling Spring. There's just time before dinner."
"I don't think I'll go, Carrie," I said languidly. "I have a headache and Roger has just offered to read to me. Do you remember how you used to cure my headaches, Roger?"
"I'd rather not talk about those days, Clara," said Roger in a shaky voice.
"I wish you two people could see and hear yourselves!" Carrie cried furiously, and turned on her heel.
"I guess that will hold her for a while," Roger purred. "Clara, you're an angel and an inspiration. I haven't had such a good time since I had scarlet fever."
Dinner, which should have been gay, was simply noisy. They were all worried, and it is indicative of how Carrie had forgotten her pose and herself that she wore her diamond necklace. Roger had been placed at the other end of the table from me, but he slipped in and changed the cards. There were half a dozen dinner guests, but Roger and I ate little or nothing.
"Act as though the thought of food sickens you," I commanded.
"I'll have my maid take a tray into the garden later."
In spite of me he broke over at the entrée, which was extremely good. But everyone saw that we were not eating. The woman on Roger's right, a visitor, took advantage of a lull in the noise to accuse Roger of being in love. Ida giggled, but Roger turned to his neighbour.
"I am in love," he said mournfully; "hopelessly, idiotically, madly, recklessly in love."
"With you," said Roger, who had never seen her before.
"Unfortunate, but not fatal," said Roger distinctly, while everyone listened. "These days one must be true to one's self."
We were awfully pleased with ourselves that evening. I said my head still ached and I could not dance. Roger and I sat out-of-doors most of the time, and at eleven o'clock Powell, my maid, brought out a tray of what was left from dinner and the dance supper. She took it by order to a small shaded porch off the billiard room, and we found her there with it.
"Thank you, Powell," I said. But Roger followed her into the house. When he returned he was grinning.
"Might as well do it right while we're about it," he observed. "To-morrow morning Powell will go to Carrie and tell her you sat up all night by the window, and she's afraid you are going to be ill."