To the solitary and replete pike, lying motionless in shadow, no
still-bait within reach is interesting. But the slightest movement in
his vicinity of anything helpless instantly rivets his attention; any
creature apparently in distress arouses him to direct and lightning
action whether he be gorged or not--even, perhaps, while he is still
gashed raw with the punishment for his last attempt.
So it was with Langly Sprowl. He had come into town, sullen, restless,
still fretting with checked desire. Within him a dull rage burned; he
was ready to injure, ready for anything to distract his mind which,
however, had not given up for a moment the dogged determination to
recover the ground he had lost with perhaps the only woman in the world
he had ever really cared for.
Yet, he was the kind of man who does not know what real love is. That
understanding had not been born in him, and he had not acquired it. He
was totally incapable of anything except that fierce passion which is
aroused by obstacles when in pursuit of whatever evinces a desire to
escape.
It was that way with him when, by accident, he saw and recognised Jessie
Vining one evening leaving the Dankmere Galleries. And Langly Sprowl
never denied himself anything that seemed incapable of self-defence.
He stopped his car and got out and spoke to her, very civilly, and with
a sort of kindly frankness which he sometimes used with convincing
effect. She refused the proffered car to take her to her destination,
but could not very well avoid his escort; and their encounter ended by
her accepting his explanations and his extended hand, perplexed,
unwilling to misjudge him, but thankful when he departed.
After that he continued to meet her occasionally and walk home with her.
Then he sent his footman and the car for her; and drew Lord Dankmere out
of the grab-bag, to his infinite annoyance. Worse, Dankmere had struck
him with an impact so terrific that it had knocked him senseless across
the table in a private dining-room of the Café Cammargue, where he
presently woke up with a most amazing eye to find the terrified
proprietor and staff playing Samaritan.
In various papers annoying paragraphs concerning him had begun to
appear--hints of how matters stood between him and Mary Ledwith, ugly
innuendo, veiled rumours of the breach between him and his aunt
consequent upon his untenable position _vis-à-vis_ Mrs. Ledwith.
Until Dankmere had inconvenienced his features he had walked downtown to
his office every day, lank, long-legged, sleek head held erect, hatchet
face pointed straight in front of him, his restless eyes encountering
everybody's but seeing nobody unless directly saluted.
Now, his right eye rivalling a thunder-cloud in tints, he drove one of
his racing cars as fast as he dared, swinging through Westchester or
scurrying about Long Island. Occasionally he went aboard the _Yulan_,
but a burning restlessness kept him moving; and at last he returned to
South Linden in a cold but deadly rage, determined to win back the
chances which he supposed he had thrown away in the very moment of
victory.
Strelsa Leeds had now taken up her abode in her quaint little house; he
learned that immediately; and that evening he went over and came upon
her moving about in the dusky garden, so intent on inspecting her
flowers that he was within a pace of her before she turned her head and
saw him.
"Strelsa," he said, "can we not be friends again? I ask no more than
that."
Too surprised and annoyed to reply she merely gazed at him. And,
because, for the first time in his life, perhaps, he really felt every
word he uttered, he spoke now with a certain simplicity and self-control
that sounded unusual to her ears--so noticeably unlike what she knew of
him that it commanded her unwilling attention.
For his unpardonable brutality and violence he asked forgiveness,
promising to serve her faithfully and in friendship for the privilege of
attempting to win back her respect and regard. He asked only that.
He said that he scarcely knew what to do with his life without the hope
of recovering her respect and esteem; he asked for a beggar's chance,
begged for it with a candour and naïveté almost boyish--so directly to
the point tended every instinct in him to recover through caution and
patience what he had lost through carelessness and a violence which
still astonished him.
The Bermuda lilies were in bloom and Strelsa stood near them, listening
to him, touching the tall stalks absently at intervals. And while she
listened she became more conscious still of the great change in
herself--of her altered attitude toward so much in life that once had
seemed to her important. After he had ceased she still stood pensively
among the lilies, gray eyes brooding. At length, looking up, she said
very quietly:
"Why do you care for my friendship, Langly? I am not the kind of woman
you think me--not even the kind I once thought myself. To me friendship
is no light thing either to ask for or to give. It means more to me than
it once did; and I give it very seldom, and sparingly, and to very, very
few. But toward everybody I am gently disposed--because, I am much
happier than I ever have been in all my life.... Is not my good will
sufficient for any possible relation between you and me?"
"Then you are no longer angry with me?"
"No--no longer angry."
"Can we be friends again? Can you really forgive me, Strelsa?"
"Why--yes, I could do that.... But, Langly, what have you and I in
common as a basis for friendship? What have we ever had in common?
Except when we encounter each other by hazard, why should we ever meet
at all?"
"You have not pardoned me, Strelsa," he said patiently.
"Does that really make any difference to you? It doesn't to me. It is
only because I never think of you that it would be an effort to forgive
you. I'll make that effort if you wish, but really, Langly, I never
think about you at all."
"If that is true, let me be with you sometimes, Strelsa," he said in a
low voice.
"Why?"
"Because I am wretchedly unhappy. And I care for you--more than you
realise."
She said seriously: "You have no right to speak that way to me, Langly."
"Could you ever again give me the right to say I love you?"
A quick flush of displeasure touched her cheeks; he saw it in the dusk
of the garden, and mistook it utterly:
"Strelsa--listen to me, dear! I have not slept since our quarrel. I must
have been stark mad to say and do what I did.... Don't leave me! Don't
go! I beg you to listen a moment----"
She had started to move away from him and his first forward step broke a
blossom from its stalk where it hung white in the dusk.
"I ask you to go," she said under her breath. "There are people here--on
the veranda----"
Every sense within him told him to go, pretending resignation. That was
his policy. He had come here for martyrdom, cuirassed in patience. Every
atom of common sense warned him to go.
But also every physical sense in him was now fully aroused--the silvery
star-dusk, the scent of lilies, a slender woman within arm's reach--this
woman who had once been so nearly his--who was still rightfully
his!--these circumstances were arousing him once more to a temerity
which his better senses warned him to subdue. Yet if he could only get
nearer to her--if he could once get her into his arms--overwhelm her
with the storm of passion rising so swiftly within him, almost choking
him--so that his voice and limbs already trembled in its furious
surge----
"Strelsa--I love you! For God's sake show me some mercy!" he stammered.
"I come to you half crazed by the solitude to which your anger has
consigned me. I cannot endure it--I need you--I want you--I ask for your
compassion----"
"Hush!" she pleaded, hastily retreating before him through the snowy
banks of rockets--"I have asked you not to speak to me that way! I ask
you to go--to go now!--because----"
"Will you listen to me! Will you wait a moment! I am only trying to tell
you that I love you, dear----"
He almost caught her, but she sprang aside, frightened, still retreating
before him.
"I cannot go until you listen to me!--" he said thickly, trampling
through the flowers to intercept her. "You've got to listen!--do you
hear?"
She had almost reached the terrace; the shadowy veranda opened widely
beyond.
"There are people here! Don't you understand?" she said once more in a
choking voice; but he only advanced, and she fell back before him to the
very edge of the porch lattice.
"Now listen to me!" he said between his teeth. "I love you and I'll
never give you up----"
Suddenly she turned on him, hands tightly clenched:
"Be silent!" she whispered fiercely. "I tell you what you say is
indecent, revolting! If there were a man here he'd kill you! Do you
understand?"
At the same instant his eyes became fixed on a figure in white which
took shadowy shape on the dark veranda, rising and coming slowly
forward.
Ghostlike as it was he knew it instantly, stood rooted in his tracks
while Strelsa stole away from him through the star-lit gloom, farther,
farther, slipping forever from him now--he knew that as he stood there
staring like a damned man upon that other dim shape in the darkness
beyond.
It was his first glimpse of her since her return from Reno. And now,
unbidden, memories half strangled were already in full resurrection,
gasping in his ears of things that had been--of forgotten passion, of
pleasure promised; and, because never tasted, it had been the true and
only pleasure for such a man as he--the pleasure of anticipation. But
the world had never, would never believe that. Only he, and the phantom
there in the dusk before him, knew it to be true.
Slightly reeling he turned away in the darkness. In his haunted ears
sounded a young wife's voice, promising, caressing; through and through
him shot a thrill of the old excitement, the old desire, urging him
again toward belated consummation.
And again the old impatience seized him, the old ruthlessness, the old
anger at finding her weak in every way except one, the old contempt
which had turned to sullen amazement when she wrote him that she had
gone to Reno and that they must wait for their happiness until the
courts decreed it legal.
Now as he swung along under the high stars he was thinking of these
things. And he felt that he had not tried her enough, had not really
exerted himself--that women who are fools require closer watching than
clever ones; that he could have overcome her scruples with any real
effort and saved her from giving him the slip and sowing a wind in Reno
which already had become enough of a breeze to bother him.
With her, for a while, he might be able to distract his mind from this
recent obsession tormenting him. To overcome her would interest him;
and he had no doubt it could be done--for she was a little fool--silly
enough to slap the world in the face and brave public opinion at Reno.
No--it was not necessary to marry such a woman. She might think so, but
it wasn't.
He had behaved unwisely, too. Why should he not have gone to see her
when she returned? By doing so, and acting cleverly, he could have
avoided trouble with his aunt, and also these annoying newspaper
paragraphs. Also he could have avoided the scene with Ledwith--and the
aborted reconciliation just now with Strelsa, where he had stood staring
at the apparition of Mary Ledwith as lost souls stand transfixed before
the pallid shades of those whom they have destroyed.
At his lodge-gate a half-cowering dog fawned on him and he kicked it
aside. The bruised creature fled, and Sprowl turned in at his gates and
walked slowly up the cypress-bordered drive.
* * * * *
He thought it all out that night, studied it carefully. What he needed
was distraction from the present torment. Mary Ledwith could give that
to him. What a fool she had been ever to imagine that she could be
anything more than his temporary mistress.
"The damned little idiot," he mused--"cutting away to Reno before I knew
what she was up to--and involving us both in all that talk! What did she
flatter herself I wanted, anyway.... But I ought to have called on her
at once; now it's going to be difficult."
Yet he sullenly welcomed the difficulty--hoped that she'd hold out. That
was what he wanted, the excitement of it to take his mind from
Strelsa--keep him interested and employed until the moment arrived once
more when he might venture to see her again. He was, by habit, a patient
man. Only in the case of Strelsa Leeds had passion ever prematurely
betrayed him; and, pacing his porch there in the darkness, he set his
teeth and wondered at himself and cursed himself, unable to reconcile
what he knew of himself with what he had done to the only woman he had
ever wished to marry as a last resort.
* * * * *
For two weeks Sprowl kept to himself. Few men understood better than he
what was the medicinal value of time. Only once had he dared ignore it.
So one evening, late in August, still dressed in knickerbockers and
heather-spats, he walked from his lawn across country to make the first
move in a new game with Mary Ledwith.
Interested, confident, already amused, and in far better spirits than he
had been for many a day, he strode out across the fields, swinging his
walking-stick, his restless eyes seeing everything and looking directly
at nothing.
Which was a mistake on his part for once, because, crossing a pasture
corner, his own bull, advancing silently from a clump of willows, nearly
caught him; but Sprowl went over the fence and, turning, brought down
his heavy stick across the brute's ringed nose; and the animal bellowed
at him and tore up the sod and followed along inside the fence
thundering his baffled fury as long as Sprowl remained in sight.
It was not all bad disposition. Sprowl, who cared nothing for animals,
hated the bull, and, when nothing more attractive offered, was
accustomed to come to the fence, irritate the animal, lure him within
range, and strike him. He had done it many times; and, some day, he
meant to go into the pasture with a rifle, stand the animal's charge,
and shoot him.
It was a calm, primrose-tinted sunset where trees and hills and a
distant spire loomed golden-black against the yellow west. No trees had
yet turned, although, here and there on wooded hills, single discoloured
branches broke the green monotony.
No buckwheat had yet been cut, but above the ruddy fields of stalks the
snow of the blossoms had become tarnished in promise of maturity--the
first premonition of autumn except for a few harvest apples yellow amid
green leaves.
He had started without any definite plan, a confident but patient
opportunist; and as he approached the Ledwith property and finally
sighted the chimneys of the house above the trees, something--some
errant thought seemed to amuse him, for he smiled slightly. His smile
was as rare as his laughter--and as brief; and there remained no trace
of it as he swung up the last hill and stood there gazing ahead.
The sun had set. A delicate purple haze already dimmed distances; and
the twilight which falls more swiftly as summer deepens into autumn was
already stealing into every hollow and ravine, darkening the alders
where the stream stole swampwards. A few laggard crows were still
winging toward the woods; a few flocks of blackbirds passed overhead
almost unseen against the sky. Somewhere some gardener had been burning
leaves and refuse, and the odour made the dusk more autumn-like.
As he crossed the line separating his land from the Ledwith estate he
nodded to the daughter of one of his own gardeners who was passing with
a collie; and then he turned to look again at the child whose slender
grace and freshness interested him.
"Look out for that bull, Europa," he said, staring after her as she
walked on.
She looked back at him, laughingly, and thanked him and went on quite
happily, the collie plodding at her heels. Recently Sprowl had been very
pleasant to her.
When she was out of sight he started forward, climbed the fence into the
road, followed it to the drive-way, and followed that among the elms
and Norway firs to the porch.
It was so dark here among the trees that only the lighted transom guided
him up the steps.
To the maid who came to the door he said coolly: "Say to Mrs. Ledwith
that Mr. Sprowl wishes to see her for a moment on a very important
matter."
"Mrs. Ledwith is not at home, sir."
"What?"
"Mrs. Ledwith is not at home."
"Where is she; out?"
"Y-yes, sir."
"Where?"
"I don't know, sir----"
"Yes, you do. Mrs. Ledwith is at home but has given you instructions
concerning me. Isn't that so?"
The maid, crimson and embarrassed, made no answer, and he walked past
her into the drawing-room.
"Light up here," he said.
"Please, sir----"
"Do as I tell you, my good girl. Here--where's that button?--there!--"
as the pretty room sprang into light--"Now never mind your instructions
but go and say to Mrs. Ledwith that I _must_ see her."
He calmly unfolded a flat packet of fresh bank-notes, selected one,
changed it on reflection for another of higher denomination, and handed
it to her. The girl hesitated, still irresolute until he lifted his
narrow head and stared at her. Then she went away hurriedly.
When she returned to say that Mrs. Ledwith was not at home to Mr. Sprowl
he shrugged and bade her inform her mistress that their meeting was not
a matter of choice but of necessity, and that he would remain where he
was until she received him.
Again the maid went away, evidently frightened, and Sprowl lighted a
cigarette and began to saunter about. When he had examined everything in
the room he strolled into the farther room. It was unlighted and suited
him to sit in; and he installed himself in a comfortable chair and,
throwing his cigarette into the fire-place, lighted a cigar.
This was a game he understood--a waiting game. The game was traditional
with his forefathers; every one of them had played it; their endless
patience had made a fortune to which each in turn had added before he
died. Patience and courage--courage of the sort known as personal
bravery--had distinguished all his race. He himself had inherited
patience, and had used it wisely except in that one inexplicable
case!--and personal courage in him had never been lacking, nor had what
often accompanies it, coolness, obstinacy, and effrontery.
He had decided to wait until his cigar had been leisurely finished.
Then, other measures--perhaps walking upstairs, unannounced, perhaps an
unresentful withdrawal, a note by messenger, and another attempt to see
her to-morrow--he did not yet know--had arrived at no conclusion--but
would make up his mind when he finished his cigar and then do whatever
caution dictated.
Once a servant came to the door to look around for him, and when she
discovered him in the half-light of the music-room she departed hastily
for regions above. This amused Sprowl.
As he lounged there, thoroughly comfortable, he could hear an occasional
stir in distant regions of the house, servants moving perhaps, a door
opened or closed, faint creaks from the stairs. Once the distant sounds
indicated that somebody was using a telephone; once, as he neared the
end of his cigar, a gray cat stole in, caught sight of him, halted, her
startled eyes fixed on him, then turned and scuttled out into the hall.
Finally he rose, flicked his cigar ashes into the fireplace, stretched
his powerful frame, yawned, and glanced at his watch.
And at the same instant somebody entered the front door with a
latch-key.
Sprowl stood perfectly still, interested, waiting: and two men,
bare-headed and in evening dress, came swiftly but silently into the
drawing-room. One was Quarren, the other Chester Ledwith. Quarren took
hold of Ledwith's arm and tried to draw him out of the room. Then
Ledwith caught sight of Sprowl and started toward him, but Quarren again
seized his companion by the shoulder and dragged him back.
"I tell you to keep quiet," he said in a low voice--"Keep out of
this!--go out of the house!"
"I can't, Quarren! I----"
"You promised not to come in until that man had left----"
"I know it. I meant to--but, good God! Quarren! I can't stand there----"
He was struggling toward Sprowl and Quarren was trying to push him back
into the hall.
"You said that you had given up any idea of personal vengeance!" he
panted. "Let me deal with him quietly----"
"I didn't know what I was saying," retorted Ledwith, straining away from
the man who held him, his eyes fixed on Sprowl. "I tell you I can't
remain quiet and see that blackguard in this house----"
"But he's going I tell you! He's going without a row--without any noise.
Can't you let me manage it----"
He could not drag Ledwith to the door, so he forced him into a chair and
stood guard, glancing back across his shoulder at Sprowl.
"You'd better go," he said in a low but perfectly distinct voice.
Sprowl, still holding his cigar, sauntered forward into the
drawing-room.
"I suppose you are armed," he said contemptuously. "If you threaten me
I'll take away your guns and slap both your faces--ask the other pup how
it feels, Quarren."
Ledwith struggled to rise but Quarren had him fast.
"Get out of here, Sprowl," he said. "You'll have a bad time of it if he
gets away from me."
Sprowl stared, hands in his pockets, puffing his cigar.
"I've a notion to kick you both out," he drawled.
"It would be a mistake," panted Quarren. "Can't you go while there's
time, Sprowl! I tell you he'll kill you in this room if you don't."
"I won't--_kill_ him!--Let go of me, Quarren," gasped Ledwith. "I--I
won't do murder; I've promised you that--for _her_ sake----"
"Let him loose, Quarren," said Sprowl.
He waited for a full minute, watching the struggling men in silent
contempt. Then with a shrug he went out into the hall, leisurely put on
his hat, picked up his stick, opened the door, and sauntered out into
the darkness.
"Now," breathed Quarren fiercely, "you play the man or I'm through with
you! He's gone and he won't come back--I'll see to that! And it's up to
you to show what you're made of!"
Ledwith, freed, stood white and breathing hard for a few moments. Then a
dull flush suffused his thin face; he looked down, stood with hanging
head, until Quarren laid a hand on his shoulder.
"It's up to you, Ledwith," he said quietly. "I don't blame you for
losing your head a moment, but if you mean what you said, I should say
that this is your chance.... And if I were you I'd simply go upstairs
and speak to her.... She's been through hell.... She's in it still. But
_you're_ out; and you can stay out if you choose. There's no need to
wallow if you don't want to. You're not in very good shape yet, but
you're a man. And now, if you do care for her, I really believe it's up
to you.... Will you go upstairs?"
Ledwith turned and went out into the familiar hall. Then, as though
dazed, resting one thin hand on the rail, he mounted the stairway, head
hanging, feeling his way blindly back toward all that life had ever
held for him, but which he had been too weak to keep or even to defend.
[Illustration: "'Let him loose, Quarren,' said Sprowl."]
Quarren waited for a while; Ledwith did not return. After a few minutes
an excited maid came down, stared at him, then, reassured, opened the
door for him with a smile. And he went out into the starlight.
He had been walking for only a few moments when he overtook Sprowl
sauntering down a lane; and the latter glanced around and, recognising
him, halted.
"Where's the other hero?" he asked.
"Probably discussing you with the woman he is likely to remarry."
Sprowl shrugged:
"That's what that kind of a man is made for--to marry what others don't
have to marry."
"You lie," said Quarren quietly.
Sprowl stared at him: then the long-pent fury overwhelmed his common
sense again, and again it was in regard to the woman he had lost by his
violence.
"You know," he said, measuring his words, "that you're the same kind of
a man, too. And some day, if you're good, you can marry what I don't
have to marry----"
He reeled under Quarren's blow, then struck at him blindly with his
walking-stick, leaping at him savagely but recoiling, dizzy, half
senseless under another blow so terrific that it almost nauseated him.
He stood for a time, supporting himself against a tree; then as his wits
returned he lifted his bruised face and stared murderously about him.
Quarren was walking toward Witch-Hollow--half way there already and out
of earshot as well as sight.
Against the stars something moved on a near hill-top, and Sprowl reeled
forward in pursuit, breaking into a heavy and steady run as the thing
disappeared in the darkness. But he had seen it move, just beyond that
fence, and he seized the top rail and got over and ran forward in the
darkness, clutching his stick and calling to Quarren by name.
Where had he gone? He halted to listen, peering around with swollen
eyes. Blood dripped from his lips and cheek; he passed his hand over
them, glaring, listening. Suddenly he heard a dull sound close behind
him in the night; whirled to confront what was coming with an unseen
rush, thundering down on him, shaking the very ground.
He made no outcry; there was no escape, nothing to do but to strike; and
he struck with every atom of his strength; and went crashing down into
darkness. And over his battered body bellowed and raged the bull.
* * * * *
Even the men who found them there in the morning could scarcely drive
away the half-crazed brute. And the little daughter of the gardener, who
had discovered what was there in the pasture, cowered in the fence
corner, crying her heart out for her father's dead master who had spoken
kindly to her since she had grown up and who had even taken her into his
arms and kissed her the day before when she had brought him a rare
orchid from the greenhouse.
* * * * *
Every newspaper in America gave up the right-hand columns to huge
headlines and an account of the tragedy at South Linden. Every paper in
the world chronicled it. There were few richer men in the world than
Langly Sprowl. The tragedy moved everybody in various ways; stocks,
however, did not move either way to the surprise of everybody. On second
thoughts, however, the world realised that his wealth had been too
solidly invested to cause a flurry. Besides he had a younger brother
financing something or other for the Emperor of China. Now he would
return. The great race would not become extinct.
* * * * *
That night Quarren went back to the Wycherlys and found Molly waiting
for him in the library.
"What on earth did Mary Ledwith want of Jim this evening?" she asked.
"Sprowl was in the house."
"What!"
"That's why the poor child telephoned. She was probably afraid of him,
and wanted Jim there."
Molly's teeth clicked:
"Jim would have half-killed him. It's probably a good thing he was in
town. What did you do?"
"Nothing. Sprowl went all right."
"What did Mary say to you?"
"I didn't see her."
"You didn't _see_ her?"
"No."
Molly's eyes grew rounder:
"Where is Chester Ledwith? He didn't go with you into the house, did
he?"
"Yes, he did."
"But where is he? You--you don't mean to say----"
"Yes, I do. He went upstairs and didn't return.... So I waited for a
while and then--came back."
They sat silent for a while, then Molly lifted her eyes to his and they
were brimming with curiosity.
"If they become reconciled," she said, "how are people going to take it,
Rix?"
"Characteristically I suppose."
"You mean that some will be nasty about it?"
"Some."
"But then----"
"Oh, Molly, Molly," he said, smiling, "there are more important things
than what a few people are likely to think or say. The girl made a fool
of herself, and the man weakened and nearly went to pieces. He's found
himself again; he's disposed to help her find herself. It was only one
of those messes that the papers report every day. Few get out of such
pickles, but I believe these two are going to.... And somehow, do you
know--from something Sprowl said to-night, I don't believe that she went
the entire limit--took the last ditch."
Molly reddened: "Why?"
"Because, although they do it in popular fiction, men like Sprowl never
really boast of their successes. His sort keep silent--when there's
anything to conceal."
"Did he boast?"
"He did. I was sure he was lying, and I--" he shrugged.
"Told him so?"
"Well, something of that sort."
"I believe he was lying, too.... It was just like that romantic little
fool to run off to Reno after nothing worse than the imprudence of
infatuation. I've known her a long while, Rix. She's too shallow for
real passion, too selfish to indulge it anyway. His name and fortune did
the business for her--little idiot. Really she annoys me."
Quarren smiled: "Her late husband seems to like her. Fools feminine have
made many a man happy. You'll be nice to her I'm sure."
"Of course.... Everybody will on Mrs. Sprowl's account."
Quarren laughed again, then:
"Meanwhile this Ledwith business has prevented my talking to Strelsa
over the telephone," he said.
"Oh, Rix! You _said_ you were going to surprise her in the morning!"
"But I want to see her, Molly. I don't want to wait----"
"It's after ten and Strelsa has probably retired. She's a perfect
farmer, I tell you--yawns horribly every evening at nine. Why, I can't
keep her awake long enough to play a hand at Chinese Khan! Be
reasonable, Rix. You had planned to surprise her in the morning....
And--I'm lonely without Jim.... Besides, if you are clever enough to
burst upon Strelsa's view in the morning when the day is young and all
before her, and when she's looking her very best, nobody can tell what
might happen.... And I'll whisper in your ear that the child has really
missed you.... But don't be in a hurry with her, will you, Rix?"
"No," he said absently.
Molly picked up her knitting.
"If Chester Ledwith doesn't return by twelve I'm going to have the house
locked," she said, stifling a yawn.
At twelve o'clock the house was accordingly locked for the night.
"It's enough to compromise her," said Molly, crossly. "What a pair of
fools they are."