"Well, then, we'll go on home," Mrs. Breckenridge said, without,
however, changing her relaxed position. "Clarence is probably
there; we've been playing cards at the Parmalees', or at least I
have. Billy and Katrina were playing tennis with Kent and--who's
the red-headed child you were enslaving this afternoon, Bill?"
"Porter Pinckard," Miss Breckenridge answered, indifferently,
before entering into a confidential exchange of brevities with
Miss Sartoris.
"I'll call him out, and run him through the liver," said Peter
Pomeroy, "the miserable catiff! I'll brook no rivals, Billy."
Billy merely smiled lazily at this; her eyes were far more
eloquent than her tongue, as she was well aware.
"Let her alone, Fascination Fledgerby!" said Mrs. Breckenridge
briskly. "Why can't we take you home with us, Elinor? We go your
way."
"You may," said Miss Vanderwall, rising. "You're dining at the
Chases', aren't you, Billy? So am I. But I was going to change
here. Where are you dining, Rachael?"
"Change at my house," Mrs. Breckenridge suggested, or rather
commanded. "I'm dining in my room, I think. I'm all in." But the
clear and candid eyes deceived no one. Clarence was misbehaving
again, everybody decided, and poor Rachael could not bespeak five
minutes of her own time until this particular period of
intemperance was over. Miss Vanderwall, settling herself in the
beautiful Breckenridge car five minutes later, faced the situation
boldly.
"Where's Clarence, Rachael?"
"I haven't the remotest idea, my dear woman," said Mrs.
Breckenridge frankly, yet with a warning glance at the back of her
stepdaughter's head. Billy was at the wheel. "He didn't dine at
home last night--"
"But we knew where he was," Billy said quickly, half turning.
"We knew where he was," agreed the older woman. "Watch where
you're going, Bill! He told Alfred that he was dining in town,
with a friend, talking business."
"I thought it was the night of Berry Stokes' dinner," suggested
Miss Vanderwall.
"He wasn't there--I asked him not to go," said Billy.
"Oh--" Miss Vanderwall began and then abruptly stopped. "Oh!" said
she mildly, in polite acquiescence.
They were sweeping through the April roadsides so swiftly that it
was only a moment later when Rachael, reaching for the door,
remarked cheerfully, "Here we are!"
The car had entered a white stone gateway, and was approaching a
certain charming country mansion, one that was not conspicuous
among a thousand others strewn over the neighboring hills and
valleys, but a beautiful home nevertheless. Vines climbed the
brick chimneys, and budding hydrangeas, in pots, topped the white
balustrades of the porch. A hundred little details of perfect
furnishing would have been taken for granted by the casual
onlooker, yet without its lawns, its awnings, its window boxes and
snowy curtaining, its glimpse of screened veranda and wicker
chairs, its trim assembly of garage, stable, and servants'
cottages, its porte-cochere, sleeping porches, and tennis court,
it would have seemed incomplete and uncomfortable to its owners.