A winding road led from the highway through a strip of woodland that
bore upward to a ridge where the lights of the house suddenly burst
upon them. The river, Kemp explained, lay just below.
A Japanese boy in white duck flung open the door and smilingly bowed
them in.
Kemp called his place The Shack, but in reality it was a dignified old
homestead that had been enlarged and only slightly modernized. The
parlor and sitting room of the old part had been thrown into one room
with the broad fireplace preserved. The floors were painted and covered
with rag rugs; the furniture was of a type that graced the homes
of well-to-do Middle Westerners in about the period of the Mexican
war. The rooms were lighted by a variety of glass table-lamps with
frosted shades adorned with crystal pendants. These survivals of the
days of “coal-oil” lighting were now cleverly arranged to conceal the
electrical source of their illumination.
“Isn’t it a peach of a house?” demanded Irene as she convoyed Grace
through the lower rooms with a careless air of proprietorship. She
led the way up the steep stairway, that had been retained as built by
the original owner, to the rooms above. The extensions, following
strictly the original simple architecture, made a commodious place of
the house, which rambled on in an inadvertent fashion bewildering to a
first visitor. A wing that had been added in recent years was hardly
distinguishable from the old rooms. Concessions to modern convenience
and comfort had been made in the sleeping rooms, of which there were
half a dozen, with white woodwork, walls in neutral tints, and wicker
furniture in summer cottage style.
“It’s all perfectly adorable,” cried Grace as they paused in one of the
rooms.
“You’ve got to hand it to Tommy,” remarked Irene; “he does have taste.”
“Maybe--” Grace hesitated and Irene instantly read her thoughts.
“Oh, you’re looking for the traces of a woman’s hand! Bless your heart,
Mrs. Kemp doesn’t bother about The Shack! It was Tommy’s idea. The
family come out for week ends in the spring and fall and Tommy makes
a point of having Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners out here, and
Mrs. Kemp invites the guests. I need hardly say”--Irene walked to a
chiffonier and inspected her face intently in the mirror--“that I’ve
never been invited to these _en famille_ functions.”
“It seems queer,” remarked Grace, dropping her hat on the bed,--“I mean
it’s queer our being here when _she_ doesn’t know!”
“Why not?” said Irene, surveying herself slowly before the glass.
“She’d probably like us if she knew us, and didn’t know we work for
a living. If Tommy just has to play a little isn’t it fine that he
chooses nice little playmates like us? He might do much worse, and get
into awful scrapes. You needn’t be afraid that the lady of the house
will come tearing in and make a fuss. Tommy never takes a chance. Her
ladyship’s in New York spending a lot of money and having a grand old
time. For all we know she’s playing around a little bit herself!”
“Oh, it wasn’t that I was thinking of so much,” Grace replied hastily.
“I was just thinking that it’s like a play, this quaint interesting
house hidden away, with all these lovely things, and kind of funny to
think that there is a woman somewhere who belongs here.”
“While we’re here _we_ belong, my dear. We’ll pretend it’s all ours. My
conscience had awful twinges the first time I came out; but one does
somehow get used to things. There’s no use bucking the spirit of the
age; we’ve got to step to the music of the band. Tommy prefers a party
of four and nearly always brings an out-of-town man, so I have to find
the other girl. If you like this party I’ll put you on for some more.”
She swung around and eyed Grace critically.
“You’re just right! Tommy whispered to me in the car that you were
wonderful,--the first thing you know he’ll be flirting with you.”
“Don’t be so foolish! Any one can see that he’s crazy about you.”
“Well, that kind of insanity doesn’t last. These little affairs are
good for a while, but something always happens sooner or later.”
She spoke with cheerful indifference as though it were the inevitable
ordering of fate that such affairs should be brief.
At the table, with candles diffusing a yellow glow upon the silver and
crystal the party struck at once a key of gaiety.
“Don’t be afraid of the cocktail, Grace,” said Kemp, lifting his
glass; “only a little orange juice and a very good gin I planted out
here in the woods before prohibition.”
“When all the rest of the world is dry Tommy will still have a few
bottles put away,” said Irene. “There’s going to be champagne, too!
Here’s to you, Tommy!”
Grace sipped the cocktail warily, drank a third of it and put it down
with a covert glance at the others to see whether they were watching
her.
“We’re all entitled to a dividend,” said Kemp. “Get busy, Jerry.”
Grace was fingering the stem of the cocktail glass, meditating whether
she should try it again, when Trenton met her gaze. Irene and Kemp were
talking animatedly, quite indifferent to the other members of the party.
“You really don’t want that,” Trenton said. “If you’re not used to it
let it alone.”
He took her glass, brimming from the dividend Jerry had poured into it,
and slowly drained it.
With a smile Grace quickly moved the glass back in front of her plate,
glancing at Irene and Kemp to see whether they were observing her.
“Thank you ever so much. I really am not used to those things.”
“I thought not; otherwise I should have let you alone.”
“How did you know?” she asked.
“Oh, that’s part of my business, to know things without being told. You
might say that I earn my living that way.”
He seemed amused about something; he constantly seemed secretly amused
in a way of his own; but there was no mistaking his wish to be kind,
and Grace was grateful for his kindness. The light touch of his
fingers as he took the glass from her hand was in itself reassuring.
“We’re alone in the midst of a deep, dark forest,” she heard Kemp
exclaim.
Turning, she saw him bending toward Irene, his arm round her shoulders,
kissing her.