"No," returned Laura upon the instant, "I did not know you were to
be one of us to-night--until Page told me." She accented the
pronouns a little, but it was enough for him to know that he had
been rebuked. How, he could not just say; and for what it was
impossible for him at the moment to determine; and she could see
that he began to experience a certain distress, was beating a
retreat, was ceding place to her. Who was she, then, this tall and
pretty young woman, with the serious, unsmiling face, who was so
perfectly at ease, and who hustled him about and made him feel as
though he were to blame for the Cresslers' non-appearance; as though
it was his fault that she must wait in the draughty vestibule. She
had a great air with her; how had he offended her? If he had
introduced himself to her, had forced himself upon her, she could
not be more lofty, more reserved.

"I thought perhaps you might telephone," she observed.

"They haven't a telephone, unfortunately," he answered.

"Oh!"

This was quite the last slight, the Cresslers had not a telephone!
He was to blame for that, too, it seemed. At his wits' end, he
entertained for an instant the notion of dashing out into the street
in a search for a messenger boy, who would take a note to Cressler
and set him right again; and his agitation was not allayed when
Laura, in frigid tones, declared:

"It seems to me that something might be done."