Free DUSKIN by Grace Livingston Hill

rather than a succession of delicacies.
    Yet she could not thoroughly enjoy it all, for there, far down the length of the table, she now and then caught sight of a dark head bent deferentially to the pretty girl beside it, and she could not forget the look its owner had given her. And there on the other side of the table, out of sight if she sat back in her place but never out of mind, were those two horrid men with whom she must deal somehow tomorrow. And there, also just ahead a few minutes perhaps, loomed a speech she must make and make it well, as well or better than Caleb Fawcett himself could have made it, and she hadn’t an idea in her head! All the fine points that she had jotted down so carefully for Frederick Fawcett had deserted her. Only the funny story was left, and it had somehow lost its point. Why had she ever thought it was funny?
    And then at last, the moment for the speech took her unaware.
    The ice cream had been served and geniality was like a sunny atmosphere. For the moment Carol had almost forgotten herself in listening to a story that her neighbor on the left was telling.
    He was an elderly man of culture and had traveled a great deal. He had recently returned from a trip to South America and was relating some of his experiences.
    Across the table there was another conversation in progress which interested her immensely, and of which she caught an occasional sentence. The people were talking about Joseph Pennell’s pictures and how he had been the first to find art in common labor and construction. Carol was interested in that because she had recently taken a trip to Washington DC and spent several hours going through an exhibit of Pennell’s pictures in the Library of Congress. She had thrilled to the beauty of the intricate network of steel girders towering up into heaven against the smoky background of the city. The artist had caught the lines of grandeur and beauty in even common things and made them live on paper. This seemed to her a great mission in life. Yet the elderly cousin who had traveled much and visited the world’s great picture galleries was decrying the modern idea of “commercializing,” as she called it, art in this way. She said it was a sign of the world’s decadence. She said she did not care for Pennell’s pictures; they seemed to her a travesty, a caricature of art.
    Carol’s cheeks grew a shade pinker and her eyes brighter. The neighbor on her left had finished his story and was hastily swallowing his ice cream, and she had an instant to herself. She almost interrupted the conversation across the table, so eager was she to make that woman understand how those noble pictures had thrilled her and how glad she was to see that common labor was at last glorified—a thing to contemplate and enjoy, not an ugly eyesore, a necessary evil that commerce might go on.
    It was just at that moment that the hush came, and turning, she saw that Fawcett was standing at her side. To her horror, he was introducing her as the first speaker, the guest of honor who was to start the ball rolling.
    Cold horror grappled at her throat, a great blinding wave seemed about to engulf her, the challenge of the universe against her soul confronted her. Somehow she got to her feet. Her face was still vivid and eager from her thoughts. Amid the storm of applause that followed her introduction she groped around in her mind for something to say. She caught at the little old joke she had memorized. It seemed a sickly straw to rest her weight upon, but she told it, amid a hush of interest that she attributed wholly to her Paris frock.
    But amazing thing! The joke got across! Laughter bubbled up spontaneously, and applause floated out like a beautiful banner! But what should she say next? Her mind was a blank.
    She waited while they laughed and applauded. The quiet smile that had been on her lips when she rose had not had wits to take itself away. It gave no hint of the tumult in her soul. She looked