and she gave his hand a rapid pressure as David Forsythe approached.
"Where's Myrtle?" the latter asked apparently negligently. Howat
replied, "Still in the agony of fixing her hair--for dinner; she'll be
at it again before supper." David whistled a vague tune. Caroline added,
"You've got fearfully dressy yourself, since London." He replied
appropriately, and then became more serious. "I wish," he told them,
"that we belonged to the church of England; you know the Penns have gone
back. It's pretty heavy at home after--after some other things. The
Quakers didn't use to be so infernally solemn. You should see the swells
about the Court; the greatest fun. And old George with a face like a
plum--"

"Don't you find anything here that pleases you?" Caroline demanded with
asperity.

"Myrtle's all right," he admitted; "not many of them are as pretty."

"I'll tell her you've come," Caroline promptly volunteered; "she won't
keep you waiting. There she is! No, it's Mrs. Winscombe."

She was swathed in a ruffled lilac cloak quilted with a dull gold
embroidery; satin slippers were buckled into high pattens of black
polished wood; and her head, relatively small with tight-drawn hair, was
uncovered. She was not as compelling under the sun as in candle light,
he observed. Her face, unpainted, was pale, an expression of petulance
discernible. Yet she was more potent than any other woman he had
encountered. "Isn't that the garden?" she asked, waving beyond the end
of the house. "I like gardens." She moved off in the direction
indicated; and--as he felt she expected, demanded--he followed slightly
behind.