But all three ladies politely declined a lift
home in his car.
"It is so hot," he pleaded.
"It is not hot," said Aunt Caroline.
Mary smiled mockingly and murmured something about the great
distances of small towns. Desire said, "No, thank you, John," in her
detached way--a way which drove him mad even while he adored it.
So the Burton-Jones garden party faded into history. But history-in-
the-making caught up its effects and carried them on. . . .
It was a lovely night. But indoors it was hot with the accumulated
heat of the day. Instead of going to bed, Mary slipped out into the
garden. It was fresher there, and she was restless. The front of the
house lay in darkness, but, from the library window at the side,
stretched a ribbon of light. Benis must be still at work. With
slippers which made no sound upon the grass, Mary crossed over to
the window and looked in.
What she saw there stung her already fretted soul to unreasoning
anger, and for once the circumspect Miss Davis acted upon impulse
undeterred by thought. Entering the house softly, she ran upstairs
to the west room which she entered without knocking.
Desire, seated at the dressing table, turned in surprise. She was
ready for bed, but lingered over the brushing of her hair. With
another spasm of anger, Mary noticed the hair she brushed--hair long
and lustrous and lifted in soft waves. A pink kimona lay across the
back of her chair, a pretty thing--but not at all French.
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