He heard a rustle of skirts against the box, and sat motionless, leaning on the parasol handle with clasped hands, and letting the rustle come nearer without lifting his eyes. He had always known that this must happen . . .
“Oh, Mr. Archer!” exclaimed a loud young voice; and looking up he saw before him the youngest and largest of the Blenker girls, blonde and blowsy, in bedraggled muslin. A red blotch on one of her cheeks seemed to show that it had recently been pressed against a pillow, and her half-awakened eyes stared at him hospitably but confusedly.
“Gracious—where did you drop from? I must have been sound asleep in the hammock. Everybody else has gone to Newport. Did you ring?” she incoherently enquired.
Archer’s confusion was greater than hers. “I—no— that is, I was just going to. I had to come up the island to see about a horse, and I drove over on a chance of finding Mrs. Blenker and your visitors. But the house seemed empty—so I sat down to wait.”
Miss Blenker, shaking off the fumes of sleep, looked at him with increasing interest. “The house is empty. Mother’s not here, or the Marchioness—or anybody but me.” Her glance became faintly reproachful. “Didn’t you know that Professor and Mrs. Sillerton are giving a garden-party for mother and all of us this afternoon? It was too unlucky that I couldn’t go; but I’ve had a sore throat, and mother was afraid of the drive home this evening. Did you ever know anything so disappointing? Of course,” she added gaily, “I shouldn’t have minded half as much if I’d known you were coming.”
Symptoms of a lumbering coquetry became visible in her, and Archer found the strength to break in: “But Madame Olenska—has she gone to Newport too?”
Miss Blenker looked at him with surprise. “Madame Olenska—didn’t you know she’d been called away?”
“Oh, my best parasol! I lent it to that goose of a Katie, because it matched her ribbons, and the careless thing must have dropped it here. We Blenkers are all like that . . . real Bohemians!” Recovering the sunshade with a powerful hand she unfurled it and suspended its rosy dome above her head. “Yes, Ellen was called away yesterday: she lets us call her Ellen, you know. A telegram came from Boston: she said she might be gone for two days. I do love the way she does her hair, don’t you?” Miss Blenker rambled on.
Archer continued to stare through her as though she had been transparent. All he saw was the trumpery parasol that arched its pinkness above her giggling head.
After a moment he ventured: “You don’t happen to know why Madame Olenska went to Boston? I hope it was not on account of bad news?”
Miss Blenker took this with a cheerful incredulity. “Oh, I don’t believe so. She didn’t tell us what was in the telegram. I think she didn’t want the Marchioness to know. She’s so romantic-looking, isn’t she? Doesn’t she remind you of Mrs. Scott-Siddons when she reads `Lady Geraldine’s Courtship’? Did you never hear her?”