WILLIAM CARTER took his wife to the inn for supper. He had appeared at
the door of the Sunday-school hall with a taxi and abruptly bundled
Fanchon into it. It was just after her performance on the stage
and before the audience began to disperse. In fact, they heard the
strains of some very churchy music coming from the orchestra, as if an
effort was being made--delayed but strenuous--to soothe the startled
spectators of Fanchon’s amazing dance.
William said nothing. He sat in the dark interior of the taxi with a
face as white as paper, and Fanchon, watching him covertly, saw that
the hand he laid on the window shook. She leaned back in her corner,
twisting a strand of pearls around her throat--a strand that she had
put on after the dance--and watching him; but she said nothing.
She had danced so wildly, indeed, that she was still panting and
throbbing with excitement. She seemed to feel the thrill of the music
even in her feet. It was intoxicating, it was what she loved--the
glamour of the lights, the music, the motion. Her whole body vibrated,
she could scarcely sit still, her feet still moved restlessly. She
loved it!
Yet she felt that heavy silence of her husband, the stiffness of his
body as he sat there, and she had caught a glimpse of his ghastly
face. She bit her lips, staring out into the night, her bosom heaving
passionately. She felt like a beautiful wild bird in a trap.
She stared, too, at the quiet street, with inveterate dislike of its
quietness. She saw the group of loungers in front of the chemist’s,
the belated pedestrians at the crossing. There was a glimpse of
shadowing trees. Pendent branches swept and swayed before feebly
lighted show-windows, where the shades were partly drawn down, and the
infrequent street-lamps shot occasional lances of light across their
dingy way. One such shaft struck on William’s profile and revealed his
tightened lips.
Fanchon wondered. She had not been aware of Mr. Carter’s catapultic
exit, and she did not know how much her husband knew. Some one must
have telephoned him--whom, she could not conjecture. She shrank away
from him a little, thinking, and Corwin’s face rose before her mind’s
eye. She saw again the confidence of his smiling, mocking eyes, and she
shuddered.
William seemed to feel it and gave her a quick look, but said nothing.
The taxi had stopped in front of an old-fashioned inn. It was a long,
low building with a glassed-in dining-room, built to accommodate the
stream of motorists who had begun to tour the mountains and scatter
gold and gasoline in their wake.
Into the new dining-room--a plain, bare place with rows of
white-covered tables and a few lean palms on pedestals--William
conducted his wife. Half a dozen negro waiters came forward. He
selected one he knew, chose a remote table, and gave his order for
supper.
“I suppose you want wine?” he said shortly to Fanchon--almost the first
words he had addressed to her.
She shrugged, slipping off her wraps and amazing the other diners with
the marvels of her costume.
“_Mais non_,” she replied indifferently. “I’m heated; I never drink
wine when I have danced.”
William, who was giving his order, stopped short a moment, his eyes
down, and she saw him pant like a man short of breath. But in another
moment he had despatched the waiter with his order and drained his
glass of water.
“_Mon Dieu!_” said Fanchon, watching him with dark, mysterious,
brooding eyes. “How can you? Iced water--it’s bad for your liver!”
“Drat my liver!” said William hoarsely. Then he leaned across the
table, his eyes raised to hers at last and spoke in a low, even voice
for her ears alone. “What have you been doing, Fanchon?”
She had never seen that look in his eyes before, and the blood rushed
back to her heart. She could not answer for a moment; her lips moved
without words.
“Do you hear?” he repeated sternly. “What have you been doing to-night?”
“I sang, you know I sang,” she replied at last, but her eyes quivered
and shrank away from his, and there was something about her like a
child expecting a blow.
But William did not heed it; he was still white with passion.
“You did more than sing,” he rejoined coldly. “You danced me into an
insult!”
Her eyes dilated.
“An insult--you?”
“Yes, an insult. Father saw you. He came home and told me what he
thought of you, and of me for letting you do it!”
Fanchon put her hand to her throat. She felt choked again, but her
beautiful, wild, fawn-like eyes clung to his face.
“You danced,” he went on bitterly. “What did you dance? One of
those--those fandangoes?”
Her face changed; a glimmer of light, of mischief, shot across it, and
she let her jeweled hands drop in her lap.
“_Oui_, I danced! _Mais que voulez vous?_ Am I not a dancer? You--it is
you who are ashamed, _mon ami_!” she added bitterly. “Why you marry me,
then?”
He threw himself back in his chair, his clenched hand falling on the
table with a gesture as poignant as it was desperate.
“You’ve let the cat out of the bag! This place--these provincials! Why,
this place is full of it by now. Did you think you were in Paris?”
“In Paris?” she laughed wildly. “_Mon Dieu, non! ‘O Paris, c’est chez
toi qu’il est doux de vivre, c’est chez toi que je veux mourir!’_”
“Drop that chatter!” he said harshly. “You speak English as well as I
do.”
She did not answer for a moment; then she leaned across the table,
looking at him, her face white and her eyes sparkling.
“You’re ashamed that you married me, a dancer--_n’est-ce-pas_?”
He averted his face. She caught only the haggard whiteness of the
profile, and she saw his hand, stretched on the table, clench and
unclench nervously. She drew a long breath.
“You’re ashamed of me,” she said in a low, quivering voice, recoiling
from him. “I--I see it!”
“I loved you,” said William passionately. “I loved you, I asked you to
consider me, and--you do this!”
“You loved me!” she repeated the words slowly. “You--_loved_--me!”
She let the accent fall on the past tense, but he was deaf to the
implied appeal.
“Fanchon, you knew what they’d think of it here--you must have known.
Why did you do it?” he cried impatiently. “It’s like your cigarette in
the streets--you like to do these things!”
“_Mais oui_, I like to do them!” she replied softly. She laughed
lightly. “I’m naughty, William, but”--she leaned toward him again,
looking at him with her fawn-like eyes--“I’m sorry!”
Her look, her voice, her very attitude expressed surrender, and the
softness of her tone appeased him. He turned his head reluctantly and
looked at her. The light was behind her, making a nimbus behind her
lovely head, her soft, dark hair, and her white forehead, and the
beauty of her eyes. Her dress, too, the dancer’s silky, shimmering,
clinging robe, seemed to reveal just enough of her white neck and arms.
She was a thing so young, so exquisite, and so subtly charming that
he caught his breath. She looked as she had looked the first time he
saw her, when he lost his heart and his head. Her dark eyes clung to
his. “_Et toi?_” she murmured softly, exquisitely, her lips trembling a
little.
Involuntarily he put out his hand and touched hers as it lay on the
table, and the tenderness of that touch was a caress. For the moment he
forgot his father and his own anger. She was bewitching, and she was
his own! What did it matter if these narrow-minded provincials were
shocked at her dancing?
Yet he was aware that while she accepted his caress, accepted his
forgiveness, and gave him a soft and caressing smile, she was changed.
Something had come between them--something so subtle, so immaterial,
that he could not grasp it; but he felt ill at ease. He said nothing,
he did not know what to say, he felt that the grievance was honestly
his, and yet, in some mysterious, unfathomable way, she had put him in
the wrong.
He laughed uneasily and began to move the glasses about awkwardly,
jingling the ice in them like a child. He was glad, too, that the
waiter returned at that moment, with the supper. He changed his order
again and called for wine.
“I’m tired,” he explained to Fanchon. “I feel as if I needed it.”
She shrugged, elevating her brows and glancing around the room, aware
that necks were craned here and there, and that some newcomers were
staring steadily at her. One of them--a short, stout, bald-headed man
in a dress-suit with a wide expanse of shirt-front--kept gazing at her,
and after a while at William. He gazed and rubbed the top of his bald
head, and then ate--taking large mouthfuls and gulping them down--while
he still gazed at her.
Fanchon, seeing it, looked demurely at her plate, toying with her
fork. She wanted to laugh, but she remembered her husband’s horror of
the sensation she had just made, and she was aware, too, of another
figure farther away. She flushed a little, saying nothing, and William,
still feeling that little rift in the lute, busied himself filling his
wine-glass again.
Fanchon, who had never seen him drink wine, lifted her heavy eyes from
her plate to watch him. She knew he had already filled his glass four
times.
“He’s not a drinking man,” she thought shrewdly. “He’s unhappy because
he’s married me, a dancer!”
William lifted his fifth glass slowly to his lips.
“It’s not bad wine, Fanchon,” he said lightly; “but we had better in
Paris.”
She shook her head.
“In Paris you didn’t drink wine, _mon ami_.”
He reddened.
“Didn’t I? I----” He stopped short.
The stout, bald-headed gentleman had risen abruptly from his table
and was approaching theirs. He did not look at William, but bowed to
Fanchon.
“Mrs. Carter, I believe?” he said suavely. “Mrs. William Carter?”
Fanchon smiled.
“_Mais oui_, and--Mr. William Carter,” she added archly, looking at the
astonished William.
The fat man bowed again, then he produced a card-case and laid his card
on the table.
“I’m Samuel Bernstein,” he said proudly, “president of the Unlimited
Film Company. Perhaps you’ve heard of me, Mr. Carter?”
“No!” said William shortly, frowning. “I haven’t had the pleasure.”
Mr. Bernstein gave him a pitying glance.
“Go to the movies?” he asked mildly.
William nodded.
“Sometimes.”
Mr. Bernstein elevated his brows. He looked at Fanchon, and his face
changed and glowed with appreciation.
“Guess you go, madam,” he said in a confident tone, “a lady of your
talent! Excuse me”--he bowed first to one and then the other--“if
you’ll permit me, I’ll sit down. I’ve got a word to say--business, you
know, strictly business.”
Fanchon’s eyes danced. She threw a mocking look at William’s stiffening
face.
“Sit down, Mr. Bernstein,” she said sweetly. “_Voilà!_ I love the
movies!”
“There!” Bernstein beamed, drawing up a chair. “I knew a lady of your
talent must love ’em.” He waved his hand gracefully, speaking to
William now, but including William’s wife. “I want to say, sir, that I
witnessed that dance to-night, and--well, sir, it hit me straight in
the bull’s-eye! Never saw it better done--never! I congratulate Mrs.
Carter, sir, and I congratulate you. It was a gem!”
William, very red, inclined his head stiffly, but Fanchon was radiant
with smiles.
“_Merci du compliment!_” she murmured.
“Eh? Oh, you’re French, ain’t you?” Mr. Bernstein returned her smile
genially. “Corwin was telling me you were Mamselle Fonchon lay Fare.
That would sound a top-liner, too, on a bill-board. Corwin--you know
him? Yes? Well, he’s running a vaudeville show somewhere now, besides
that hairy piano man, and he wants you in his show. I suspicioned that
right off.”
“My wife isn’t a show-woman!” thundered William, his brow black.
“No offense, no offense, Mr. Carter!” Mr. Bernstein waved a fat hand
on which a diamond flashed magnificently. “I don’t cotton to these
cheap shows myself. Now, madam, I’m a business man, and I’ve got a
proposition to make to you, a gilt-edged proposition.” He edged his
chair nearer, looking from Fanchon to William and back again, with the
air of a benefactor. “It’ll appeal to you, sir. It’s dignified, it’s
fine, and it’s money, sir, good money! Now, I saw that dance to-night
and I says to myself, ‘Sammy Bernstein, if you’re a man you’ll beat it
after that first thing,’ and I’m beating it. Madam, I’d offer you, as a
starter, five hundred dollars a week to give that dance in a picture,
a high-class, six-reel picture, for the Unlimited Film Company!” Mr.
Bernstein flung himself back in his chair, thrust his thumbs into the
armholes of his white waistcoat, and beamed upon them. “Five hundred
dollars a week, madam, and your expenses--for one picture. You can’t
beat that--Corwin ain’t going to beat that!”
“My wife won’t go into the movies!” said William, white with anger.
Mr. Bernstein reddened.
“I reckon you don’t understand, sir. The Unlimited Film Company is a
star company, sir; it does the finest pictures in the country; we’ve
got more stars than any other company this side of the Rockies. We got
’em, and we treat ’em right.”
William rose furiously.
“My wife isn’t looking for an engagement, sir, so we bid you good
evening!”
Mr. Bernstein rose hastily.
“I say--no offense----”
“You’re very good,” said Fanchon softly, lingering an instant as
William strode away; “I’m not in it--not now! My husband doesn’t like
it, you know. _Adieu, monsieur, et merci!_”
She was smiling, a little flushed, altogether charming, as she lifted
her fawn-like countenance to his red face. Mr. Bernstein relaxed and
grinned knowingly.
“I see! I’m sorry, madam. Put my foot in it, eh?” He lowered his voice.
“I’ll make it eight hundred a week--see?”
She nodded, but William had turned a white face toward them, and she
fled lightly, following him in his hasty stride through the now crowded
dining-room. She had caught her wraps up hastily and thrown them about
her shoulders, and the chiffon frills framed her small, pointed chin.
The diners--belated motorists and traveling salesmen--stared
delightedly. The scene was as plain as a charade, the angry young
husband and the lovely, coquettish, frivolous young wife. Fanchon
caught whispers of admiration and glances of sympathy. At another
moment they would have pleased her, would have appealed to every
instinct of her light, admiration-loving nature, but to-night she saw
some one ahead, some one whom she must pass, and she was thinking,
thinking hard and fast, her heart beating pitifully under the splendor
of her dancing dress.
Meanwhile William stalked ahead, with his square jaw set and his eyes
stormy. He wanted to wring Bernstein’s neck and he could not. It made
his hands clench and unclench nervously at his sides.
As they neared the door, a tall man rose from a crowded table and
greeted Fanchon in French with an effusion that made William halt.
Corwin caught his eye and bowed.
“Present me to your husband,” he said to Fanchon.
She turned with that delicate grace which made her small figure seem so
light and buoyant. She had rallied all her forces, all her will. She
smiled, her eyes shining dangerously.
“William, this is my old friend, Mr. Corwin.”
William shook hands stiffly.
“We’re just going,” he said shortly. “Good night!”
Fanchon laughed, half-apologetic, half-coquettish; but she found
herself hurried out into the hall.
“Who’s that fellow?” asked William sharply. She was still laughing,
half hysterical.
“Caraffi’s manager, Aristide Corwin--I’ve known him for ages.”
William grunted.
“Looks like a Monte Carlo gambler,” he said, and signaled for a taxi.
X
VIRGINIA bade Lucas stop the horses. The old wagonette was on its way
out to Denbigh Crossing, and Daniel Carter had just come in sight.
Virginia thought she had never seen him look so pale.
“He looks ill, and his limp is bad, too, poor fellow!” she breathed to
herself; but she smiled, leaning over the back of the seat to shake
hands.
“Where have you kept yourself, Dan?” she asked kindly, with the
sweetness in her tone that Daniel had come to recognize as pity.
“Grandfather has been asking for you.”
“I’m afraid he wants the book he lent me,” said Daniel, looking up at
her and aware of the softness of her glance. She looked lovely, that
same old shade hat looped down and the knot of pink under her chin;
but the muslin dress was dotted white Swiss this time, with a little
opening at the neck that showed a lovely throat. “I’ll bring it back
this week.”
“Fie! As if he wanted the old book! We’ve missed you, Dan.”
He flushed boyishly and let his eyes dwell upon her. And, for the
first time in her life, Virginia blushed consciously under Daniel’s
look.
“Have you really?” he asked eagerly.
“Really and truly!” She nodded at him, smiling. “I should have written
you a note about it--invited you to dinner, in fact, if it had not been
for our--our concert--” She blushed this time, remembering suddenly
that there must have been an earthquake in the Carter house. “I’ve
just finished settling up the accounts with Mrs. Payson,” she added
hurriedly. “I’m glad it’s over!”
There was a ghost of laughter in Daniel’s eyes, but he kept a sober
face.
“It was a success, then, Virginia?”
“Oh, yes! We paid in our full share; no one out of pocket except Mr.
Payson. You know, he paid Caraffi. Dan, did you hear Caraffi play?”
He shook his head.
“I’d rather hear you.”
“Mercy! Don’t say that out loud.” She laughed, but her blush deepened.
It seemed to-day as if there was something new in Daniel, something she
did not understand. “Come and hear me play, though, and I’ll believe
you.”
Daniel glanced at the very conscious but decorous back of Lucas, and
smiled. No one was ever worried about what Daniel said!
“I’m coming. I’ve been wanting to come all along,” he said gravely;
“but--I’m afraid of wearing out my welcome.”
She looked surprised, then, catching his eye, realized that Daniel
had been afraid that William’s brother was unwelcome. She blushed
gloriously this time.
“You couldn’t--you couldn’t if you tried,” she said softly. Then to the
coachman: “Go on, Lucas. I mustn’t keep you, Dan, but be sure you come
soon.”
He stood bare-headed in the sunshine, watching the old wagonette
disappear; then he put on his hat and walked haltingly and slowly
toward the court-house. He was to address the jury in the afternoon,
and in some way the sight of Virginia always helped him. He seemed to
carry her smile, like sunshine, into the old dim court-room. He always
spoke well afterward, so well that he was getting the name of an orator
without being aware of it.
Plato had just served a light lunch for Colonel Denbigh on the lawn.
The old man, sitting under his favorite horse-chestnut-tree, ate
sparingly and drank one iced julep, made in the old Virginia style. He
had finished, and Plato was holding the lighter for his cigar.
“Go to the concert the other night, Plato? Miss Virginia says you
carried her bundles, and she thinks you heard it all.”
Plato held the lighter dexterously.
“Yessuh, I went ’long wid Miss Jinny. Didn’t pay no ’mission fee,
jus’ walked righ’ in, same as Miz Payson an’ de quality. Yessuh, de
music mighty fine, but I was lookin’ at young Miz Carter when she was
dancin’. Dat’s what done took dis yere nigger!”
The colonel puffed at his cigar, a twinkle in his eye.
“Like it, Plato?”
“Yessuh! It was de mos’ circumspecklar dancin’ I ever see, suh, it sho
was. I ain’t seen nuffin like it since de circus. But Mirandy Parsons,
de collud girl dat works at Miz Carter’s, she says dere was terr’ble
goings-on dere ’bout dis yere dance. She ’lowed Mist’ Carter mos’ throw
a fit.”
Colonel Denbigh took off his hat and ran his fingers through his white
hair.
“It was a great dance, Plato, a great dance.” He shook with silent
laughter. “Some of the weaker brethren had to leave, though.”
“Dey sho did, suh! I met de Baptist minister comin’ out, an’ de ladies
was wid him. Dey was sayin’ something ’bout dat dance in de Bible,
an’ ’bout John de Baptist’s head on a charger. Seems like he took it
hard--I don’t mean John de Baptist, but de minister. Done paid five
dollahs fo’ his sittin’, an’ couldn’t set out no five dollahs’ worth.
Dat’s what got him mad, suh, it sho was.”
The colonel shouted with laughter.
“He got more than five dollars’ worth out of that dance, Plato! There’s
Miss Jinny now,” he added, glancing down the driveway. “You go and help
her out with her packages.”
The old wagonette had entered the gateway, and Plato hurried off across
the lawn; but the horses stopped short, and Virginia got out, meeting
some one who had entered from the opposite direction. The colonel, well
in the shade of his horse-chestnut, removed his cigar from his mouth.
He was startled. The visitor was William Carter.
While Plato was taking a number of small packages from the wagonette,
the pair greeted each other in the sunlit space of the old driveway.
Something in their faces made the colonel rise silently and deftly beat
a retreat. He passed behind the old box hedge and made his way back to
the house.
“I reckon they’d like to have it out by themselves,” he thought.
Virginia, meanwhile, came across the lawn with William Carter. She
stopped as she came near the horse-chestnut.
“Why, I thought grandfather was here!” she exclaimed, and then to
William: “Won’t you sit down? I’ll call him.”
“But I didn’t come to see him,” said William quietly. “I came to see
you, Virginia. I suppose I may sit down just the same?”
She blushed.
“Of course!” She took off her hat and laid it on the rustic table, and
the sunshine seemed to caress the strands of gold in her soft hair.
“We like to sit out here, you know, in summer. It seems so good to be
out-of-doors. Do you notice what a view we have, since they cut that
new street through?”
She was talking hurriedly, a little nervously, not looking at him. It
was their first moment alone together since his return, and Virginia
was not quite sure of herself. She pointed out the view.
William turned and looked at it absently.
“You can see a long way, can’t you?”
“Yes; and there’s such a glimpse now of blooming things. The old
magnolia’s full of buds.”
“Fanchon doesn’t like these things,” said William moodily. “They bore
her. She says she’d rather see one of those electric signs in New
York, flashing Budweiser beer in and out, than sit here and count
lightning-bugs!”
Virginia laughed, blushing again.
“What would we do if we all liked the same thing?” she asked lightly,
and then, very sweetly: “William, I think your wife is beautiful. At
first, one can’t decide, the face is so charming, so piquant; but when
she smiles and those dark eyes of hers dwell on you--she’s beautiful!”
William said nothing for a moment. He was sitting in the colonel’s
chair, his hat on his knees, and Virginia could see new haggard lines
in his face. He did not look at her, but away toward a distant spire
that appeared above the thick foliage, like a finger pointing upward.
“Yes, she’s beautiful,” he admitted at last, almost with reluctance.
Virginia, aware that he was thinking of days long ago, when he had
taken her to church and carried her books home from school, felt her
breath coming short. She was trying hard, but if he would not meet her
half-way, how could she patch it up?
She averted her face, toying with her grandfather’s empty glass. The
ice still jingled in it a little, and William started. He remembered
jingling the ice in the glasses on the inn table, and Fanchon’s eyes
seemed to mock him. He drew a long sigh.
“I hope you don’t mind my sitting here, Virginia,” he said gravely.
“It’s--it’s so homelike. I can’t bear to go. I suppose lost spirits
hang around sometimes outside the gates of paradise.”
Virginia caught her breath this time. She dared not look at him. She
had taken a ring out of her pocket and held it out in the palm of her
hand; but now, looking at his set profile, she hardly dared to speak
of it. Her hand trembled; he was unhappy, and he had come to her!
Something like fear showed in her eyes, but she forced herself to speak.
“I wish you’d come in and see grandfather. He’d be glad, I know. We
meant to come to see your wife again--some evening when you would be at
home.”
William lifted his head slowly and looked at her.
“Virginia, I got the letters you sent me,” he said in a low voice. “The
reason I didn’t return yours was--I burned them one night in Paris just
before--”
He stopped, unable to go on, red in the face; but she was quite calm.
His very embarrassment steadied her.
“That’s all right,” she said. “I’m glad you spoke, because I wanted
to give you this.” She held out her hand with the ring in her palm. “I
know it belonged to your grandmother. I was afraid to trust it to the
mails. Here it is, William.”
He held out his hand stiffly, without looking at her, and Virginia had
to put the ring into it.
“Thank you,” he said in a low voice.
Then he looked in a dazed way at the ring lying in his hand. The color
slowly receded from his flushed face and left it pale. He remembered
the day he had put it on her finger!
So did she; but Virginia was a brave woman. She could not help seeing
his face, and, being a woman, she knew. She could shape the whole story
easily now. She had heard rumors of Mr. Carter’s wrath at Fanchon’s
dance, and she knew what William must have felt. The talk must have
reached him. This was the recoil. She loved him, and she understood. It
would have tempted another woman; it frightened Virginia. She tried to
think of something to say, but she could not.
They sat silently, the shade of the horse-chestnut stretching over
them. Beyond them the sun shone on the old lawns and flower-beds. They
were so motionless that a robin, searching for worms, came almost up to
their feet.
“Do you mind my sitting around here?” he asked again in a low voice.
“It’s the most restful place I’ve found.”
She steadied her voice.
“It is a restful place. Once we thought we’d have to give it up, but
some stocks paid in, and we saved it. I’m so glad!”
William straightened himself.
“I didn’t know that.”
She was startled. She had not thought that he would take it in this
way. Everything led them into the shoals, it seemed. She smiled, but
her lips shook.
“I don’t think any one knew it but Dan,” she replied gently. “Dan
helped us save it.”
“Dan?” He turned and looked at her, plainly startled, too, by another
thought. “Dan?”
She met his look steadily this time.
“Yes, Dan. He’s so good to us. I think he’s very noble.”
William stared at her, paling again. A kind of fury came into his look,
and she saw it. He was jealous of Dan! She understood now. That poor
girl, his wife, had been a wild fancy, an episode, no more, and he was
waking up.
She rose slowly to her feet.
“Come,” she said. “I’m going in. Grandpa is there, and you must come in
and see him.”
She turned as she spoke, and William got to his feet, still white and
haggard, his eyes following her. But Virginia stopped abruptly. Before
them on the lawn, unheard and unseen in her approach, stood a small,
white-clad figure in a daring scarlet hat, pale and piquant.
“I don’t think you heard me,” said Fanchon softly, her dark eyes
flashing from one to the other. “You weren’t listening!” And she
laughed shrilly.
William crimsoned, but Virginia was calm.
“No, we didn’t,” she replied simply; “but I’m glad to see you. We were
just going into the house--will you come, too?”
Fanchon lifted her fawn-like eyes slowly to the other girl’s face.
There was something noble in it, too noble for the retort that was on
the end of her sharp tongue. She colored angrily.
“Of course! I came to call,” she said lightly. “William got ahead of
me, I see.”
Virginia did not reply to this. She was already at the piazza steps.
“Please come this way,” she said lightly.
But Fanchon did not answer her. She had approached her husband, her
large eyes mocking him, her lips parted. A strange look, half elfish,
half fond, was on her face.
“You needn’t be in such a hurry to hide that ring,” she said below her
breath. “I know about it. There was one letter you forgot to burn,
_mon ami_!”
He turned from red to white. His only comfort was Virginia’s noble,
unconscious look as she led the way into the house.