“If you like—I don’t suppose Thurley _does_ care,” Dan went over to the lounge and, flinging himself down, picked up a newspaper, “or she would never have left here! Anything else new—nobody lynched Owen yet—Cora got a new beau? I saw a travelling man in Hamilton that was her speed. When he comes here we’ll ask him over and let Cora do her best. I suppose Hazel and Josie have camped out here while I’ve been away. You look pale, ’Raine—what’s wrong—your dad sick? Then come here and guess what I brought for you—”
“You’re always bringing me things,” she said wistfully. Even his reassuring words did not satisfy. They were spoken with a glib uneasiness which did not deceive.
“You extravagant Dan,” Lorraine said, examining the silver purse, “how lovely of you!”
“I’m going to take forty winks before supper—mind? I can’t get used to irregular hours and country hotels. Oh, ’Raine, small towns are the devil’s own makings, of all the narrow, carping—” Dan dozed off, apparently, with unfinished sentiments giving way to regular breathing.
Lorraine tiptoed away. “He didn’t seem to mind,” she consoled herself as she cooked supper, “but he has not seen her!”
Lorraine had. She watched Thurley as she drove by, standing half hidden behind bushes to note every lovely, strange detail of her appearance, wondering why Thurley, who had brought the world to her feet so easily, must return to this village to steal the peace of mind of a woman who had not even brought the one man she loved to her own timid feet!
Dan stayed at home that evening as if wishing to prove his devotion to Lorraine. Usually he would have wandered down to the hotel or the lodge room. They talked of everything else but Thurley’s return, although each thought of nothing else, and in the morning Dan said carelessly,
“Don’t call on Thurley unless you like. I dare say she does not expect it. Every gawk of a country girl will crowd in on her, curious and self-seeking, and if Thurley wants to see any one, she’ll come to them. She doesn’t belong to the town any more but to the world.” His voice softened as he added, “Good-by, dear; now don’t work your head off. I’ll lunch at the hotel—there is so much stuff to catch up on.”
That same afternoon Dan’s car drove slowly past the Fincherie, whose crisp curtains and lifted shades told the world a new, optimistic story. No one was visible, not even the much discussed lady’s maid or the accompanist who was said to sit on the lawn and drink endless cups of tea “right in the middle of the afternoon!”