world. He accepted a cigarette, shared the flame of his lighter with
mother and daughter, and submitted to being gushed over.

"... and, honestly, Jeff, you get handsomer every year," Irene Gresham
rattled on. "Dot, doesn't he look just like Clark Gable in _Gone with the
Wind_? But then, of course, Jeff really _is_ a Southerner, so ..."

The doorbell interrupted this slight _non sequitur_. She broke off,
rising.

"Sit still, Jeff; I'm just going to see who it is. You know, we're down
to only one servant now, and it seems as if it's always her night off, or
something. I don't know, honestly, what I'm going to do...."

She hurried out of the room. Voices sounded in the hall; a man's and a
girl's.

"That's Pierre and Karen," Dot said. "Let's all go up in the gunroom, and
wait for the others there."

They went out to meet the newcomers. The man was a few inches shorter
than Rand, with gray eyes that looked startlingly light against the dark
brown of his face. He wasn't using a cane, but he walked with a slight
limp. Beside him was a slender girl, almost as tall as he was, with dark
brown hair and brown eyes. She wore a rust-brown sweater and a brown
skirt, and low-heeled walking-shoes.

Irene Gresham went into the introductions, the newcomers shook hands with
Rand and were advised that the style of address was "Jeff," rather than
"Colonel Rand," and then Dot suggested going up to the gunroom. Irene