He was superior to her temper, indifferent to it, because he was
indifferent to her. Suddenly the charm she had had for him was gone,
the seductiveness dissolved, leaving only Anette, a fairly good-looking
girl he had known for a great while. His warm response to her was dead;
whatever she had aroused and satisfied, or left in suspense, no longer
contented him. The memory of his interest in her, the thought he had
expended, was now a cause of surprise, incomprehensible. Lee wanted to
return to the club house and Fanny.

There was an obscure indication of Alice's hands raised in the
rearrangement of her hair. George Willard half turned, facing the rear
of the car. "I can't see much," he said, "but it is evident that you
two have been fighting. Why don't you live in peace and happiness? The
trouble's all with Lee, too, you don't have to tell me that, Anette; he
is too cursed cantankerous; and it would serve him right if you'd come
up here with us."

Anette opened the door and an icy draft swept about their knees. "Not
yet," Willard begged; "we won't be missed."

"You may stay as long as you want," Anette replied, "but I am going
back." Positively her voice bore a trace of tears. What, what was it
all about? It was Alice who decided that they should return together:
"The bottle's empty, my hair net is fixed for the third time, and we
had better. You get out, George, please. No, I told you."

Lee Randon welcomed the solid rushing of the wind; it swept in full
blast across the open of the golf course and made walking precarious.
Anette was lost, forgotten. If the chill air could only take the fever,
the desire, out of his mind and blood! He wished that he might be