the season died out; the last noble and indigent foreigner had been
eluded; the last old beau foiled; the last squab-headed dancing man
successfully circumvented. And now the gallinaceous half of the world
was leaving town in noisy and glittering migration, headed for temporary
roosts all over the globe, from Newport to Nova Scotia, from Kineo to
Kara Dagh.

Country houses were opening throughout the Western Hemisphere; Long
Island stirred from its long winter lethargy, stung into active life by
the Oyster Bay mosquito; town houses closed; terrace, pillar, portico,
and windows were already being boarded over; lace curtains came down;
textiles went to the cleaners; the fresh scent of camphor and lavender
lingered in the mellow half-light of rooms where furniture and pictures
loomed linen-shrouded and the polished floor echoed every footstep.

In the sunny gloom of the Seagrave house Geraldine found a grateful
retreat from the inspiring glare and confused racket of her first
winter; ample time for rest, reverie, and reflection, with only a few
intimates to break her meditations, only informality to reckon with, and
plenty of leisure to plan for the summer.

Around the house, trees and rhododendrons were now in freshest bloom,
flower-beds fragrant, grass tenderly emerald. The moving shadows of
maple leaves patterned the white walls of her bedroom; wind-blown gusts
of wistaria fragrance, from the long, grapelike, violet-tinted bunches
swaying outside the window, puffed out her curtains every morning.

At night subtler perfumes stole upward from the dark garden; the roar
of traffic from the avenues was softened; carriage lights in the
purpling dusk of the Park moved like firebugs drifting through level