father. At times she was thrilled by the familiar obscure sense of
music, of longing slowly translated into happiness. Then more actual
problems would envelop her in doubt. Mostly she was confused--in her
cool material necessity for understanding--by the temper of her
feeling for Dodge Pleydon. Linda wondered if this were love. Perhaps,
when she saw him again, she'd be able to decide. Then she remembered
promising to let him know if she changed her address. It was possible
that already he had called at the Feldts', or written, and that her
mother had refused to inform him where she had gone.

Linda had been at the Lowries' two weeks now, but they were acutely
distressed when she suggested that her visit was unreasonably
prolonged. "My dear," they protested together, "we hoped you'd stay
the summer. Bartram's girl! Unless, of course, it is dull with us.
Something brighter must be arranged. No doubt we have only thought
of our own pleasure in having you."

Linda replied honestly that she enjoyed being with them extremely.
Her mother's dislike, the heavy luxury of the Feldt apartment, held
little attraction for her. Then, too, losing the sense of the
bareness of the house Hallet Lowrie had built for his French wife,
she began to find it surprisingly appealing.

Her mind returned to her promise to Pleydon. She told herself that
probably he had forgotten her existence, but she had a strong
unreasoning conviction that this was not so. It seemed the most
natural thing in the world to write him and, almost before she was
aware of the intention, she had put "Dear Mr. Pleydon" at the head
of a sheet of note-paper.