slipped out into the malice of the wind beating on them from the
darkness. Anette was pressed tightly against Lee, Alice and George
Willard were vaguely ahead; and, after a short breathless distance,
they were in the protection of the shed. The Lucians' automobile had an
elaborate enclosed body: shutting the doors they were completely
comfortable, unobserved and warm. "No," Alice directed, "don't put on
the light; I can find it. There! We'll have to use the cap for a
glass." The aluminum top of the bottle was filled and refilled; the
frigid gin and orange juice brought Lee Randon a glow of careless well-
being, irresponsibility.

The others had gone to the front seat, where they were squeezed into a
remarkably small space. Anette sat leaning forward, her chin propped in
her left hand and the right lightly resting on Lee's knee. A loose
board in the shed kept up an exasperating clatter. A match flared and
Willard lighted a cigarette. It was curious about Alice--only in the
last year, and for no reason Lee could discover, had she done things
such as this. Perhaps, with no children, and the money Warner had
accumulated comparatively lately, she hadn't enough to do. Of course,
Warner, a splendid individual, could not be called entertaining; he was
totally absorbed in his business, often away at the wood-pulp mill, in
the Laurentian Mountains, in which he had a large interest.

Warner Lucian had nearly all the principal virtues--integrity,
generosity, courage, and he was as single in mind as Willard was
dubious; but, in spite of so much, it was clear that he had begun to
weary Alice. She was publicly indifferent to him, careless of his
wishes; she had even complained to Lee about her husband's good
conduct, explaining that if he would only have what she termed an
affair he would be more human.