The Dark Star
Page 46A rain-washed world, smelling sweet as a wet rose, a cloudless sky
delicately blue, and a swollen stream tumbling and foaming under the
bridge--of these Mr. Eddie Brandes was agreeably conscious as he
stepped out on the verandah after breakfast, and, unclasping a large
gold cigar case, inserted a cigar between his teeth.
He always had the appearance of having just come out of a Broadway
barber shop with the visible traces of shave, shampoo, massage, and
manicure patent upon his person.
His short, square figure was clothed in well-cut blue serge; a smart
straw hat embellished his head, polished russet shoes his remarkably
small feet. On his small fat fingers several heavy rings were
conspicuous. And the odour of cologne exhaled from and subtly pervaded
the ensemble.
wrecked runabout, glistening with raindrops.
He stood for a while on the verandah, both hands shoved deep into his
pockets, his cigar screwed into his cheek. From time to time he
jingled keys and loose coins in his pockets. Finally he sauntered down
the steps and across the wet road to inspect the machine at closer
view.
Contemplating it tranquilly, head on one side and his left eye closed
to avoid the drifting cigar smoke, he presently became aware of a
girl in a pink print dress leaning over the grey parapet of the
bridge. And, picking his way among the puddles, he went toward her.
"Good morning, Miss Carew," he said, taking off his straw hat.
She turned her head over her shoulder; the early sun glistened on his
pin.
"Good morning," she said, a little uncertainly, for the memory of
their first meeting on the bridge had not entirely been forgotten.
"You had breakfast early," he said.
"Yes."
He kept his hat off; such little courtesies have their effect; also it
was good for his hair which, he feared, had become a trifle thinner
recently.
"It is beautiful weather," said Mr. Brandes, squinting at her through
his cigar smoke.
"Yes." She looked down into the tumbling water.
"This is a beautiful country, isn't it, Miss Carew?"
With his head a little on one side he inspected her. There was only
the fine curve of her cheek visible, and a white neck under the
chestnut hair; and one slim, tanned hand resting on the stone
parapet.
"Do you like motoring?" he asked.
She looked up: "Yes.... I have only been out a few times."
"I'll have another car up here in a few days. I'd like to take you
out."
She was silent.
"Ever go to Saratoga?" he inquired.
"No."
"I'll take you to the races--with your mother. Would you like to go?"