At the gate a motor had stopped and from it he and that creature were alighting.
Dumbfounded at the audacity, conscious that if he were capable of that he was capable of anything, and, through one of the sudden somersaults of the emotions, conscious also that it was no longer love that she had for him, but hate, she turned, hurried to the door, and locked it.
But it was impossible, she told herself. She had become the plaything of her own imagination and, to assure herself of the mistake, she hurried back from the door to the window.
Mistake indeed! There they were, actually walking up the path, she leaning on his arm and he talking lowly to her. It was more than flesh could bear. Nelly began to cry.
Her tears—tears of anger, of humiliation, of sheer helplessness—fell swiftly like the ripple of the rain. Not to stay them, for she could not, but in an effort to get away from herself, she flung herself face downward on the sofa.
What should she do, she plaintively wondered. What could she do? To whom could she turn? Long since her brother, as was his custom, must have gone to town, where he would remain until late, and her mother, as was her custom, was certainly asleep.
Well, there was comfort in that, she decided. There would be no one to receive them. In the consolation of it, she sat up and, reflecting, perhaps sagely, that there is no use in spoiling one’s looks, she dabbed at her slackening tears.
But now who was this? There was someone on the stair, someone at her door, someone who rapped, someone who spoke:
“Miss Nelly, Mr. Tams and a lady.”
The effrontery of that! Why, she wouldn’t even deign to answer!
“Miss Nelly, are you out?”
Tentatively a hand turned the resisting knob. Then presently she heard Sarah redescend the stair.
Now they would go, she told herself. They would have to, and when they had, she would put on her things and get her cob and have a good run. She did not care any more, not for anything or anybody.
At that reflection, finding herself crying again, she bit her lip. But to the soul that is sinking, hope throws always a straw. Perhaps, she told herself, some day, some time, her heart would be at peace. Perhaps. And fortified by the tolerably vague possibility, she stood up, went to the window again, and looked out.
There he was, strolling along to the motor, but alone.
Nelly craned a bit to see if that creature could be lagging behind. But no, he was really alone, and at once the partially appeasing idea occurred to her that, before presuming to get more than a bit beyond the gate, he had at least had the decency to pack that person off.
Yes, he must have, she decided, for now he was in the motor; now, with a toot, he had gone.
Assured of this, Nelly contemplated her lemon-colored frock, changed leisurely from it into her perfect togs, washed her face in sweet waters, took her crop and her gloves, unlocked the door, and went down.
But in the hall below, voices from the veranda arrested her. For a moment, her head drawn back in that attitude which a deer has when surprised, uncertainly she stood. Who could be out there? A sneeze informed her. That sneeze she recognized. Her mother was there. But, filled with wild surmise, she shook her crop. Could that creature be there, too?
Yet now, from the other end of the hall, a faint clatter of dishes came. A-tiptoe she went toward it. In the dining room Sarah was busying herself. At sight of the girl, she put down a tray.
“I thought you was out, miss.”
Nelly lifted a finger.
“Who is on the veranda?”
“Mr. Tams and a lady and your mother.”
“Mr. Tams! I saw him go.”
“Yes, miss, while your mother was dressing, he went to the post office. He came back a minute ago. The lady waited for him. She—”
Sarah took up the tray.
“Well?”
“Nothing, miss. I asked her would she have a cup of tea, and she just looked at me, like that!” Sarah bulged her eyes. “A foreigner, I’m thinking.”
Nelly, meditating escape by the back door, switched her crop and might have gone, but from the veranda a wave of laughter rolled richly like a flood of wine.
To her overwrought nerves, it was a bugle blast. With an uplift of the chin, she straightened. No back door, no cowardice for her! She would march out, her head in the air and good day to them, but civilly, for this was her house and, however insulted, she would not be betrayed into anything petty, though if that creature were a foreigner, perhaps she might be beneficently inspired to say to her something—well, something pleasant and acid, in French.
To that end a reconnaissance was needful—the lay of the land, the position of the enemy, the advantage or disadvantage of an abrupt sortie.
“Give me a drink of water, please,” she said to Sarah.
It was the stirrup cup, and, having drunk it, she went on, this time not in the hall where she might be seen, but into the sitting room, which gave on the veranda and through the latticed windows of which she could peer.
“Yes,” Tams was saying as, noiselessly, she approached. “But she limps.”
Mrs. Fay, in a shawl, had her back to the window. Opposite, leaning against the railing, was Tams. Beyond, in a chair, sat the creature.
“And, oddly enough, only in one leg—the left. There’s something wrong with it.”
Mrs. Fay sneezed.
“I hadn’t noticed it. But you say she sings?”
Tams nodded.
“Anything—duets, trios, a whole chorus—whatever you like.”
Mrs. Fay sneezed again.
“It does seem wonderful.”
Tams, leaning forward, took the young woman by the hand. At the touch, slowly she turned her head and covered him with her starlike eyes.
Nelly clutched at her crop. She could have struck them.
Mrs. Fay made a queer little
