They were at the well-defined stage of heart malady when a trifle will cloud the elusive sun, and when a shattered mood cannot be reconstructed at will.
Doris became vaguely aware that the afternoon was hot and that her nose was probably shiny. Instinctively, she turned toward the house.
Vail, unable to frame an excuse for prolonging the stroll, fell into step at her side, obsessed by a dull feeling that the walk had somehow been a failure and that he was making no progress at all in his suit.
As they made their way houseward across the rolling expanse of side-lawn, they saw a huge and dusty car drawn up under the porte-cochère. On the steps was a heap of luggage. A chauffeur stood by the car, stretching his putteed legs, and smoking a furtive cigarette; the machine’s bulk between him and the porch.
In the tonneau lolled a fat and asthmatic-looking old German police dog.
On the veranda, in two wicker chairs drawn forward from their wonted places, lolled a man and a woman swathed in yellow dust-coats. The man was enormous, paunchy, pendulous, sleek. The woman was small and dark and acerb. They were chatting airily, as Vail and Doris drew near.
In front of them wavered Vogel, the butler, trying to get in a word edgewise, as they talked. Back of the doorway, in the hall, could be seen the shadowy forms of the second man and a capped maid, listening avidly.
At sight of Thaxton, the butler abandoned his vain effort to interrupt the strangers and came in ponderous haste down the stone steps and across the lawn to meet his employer.
“Excuse me, sir,” began Vogel, worriedly, “but might I speak to you a minute?”
Doris, with a word of dismissal to her escort, moved on toward the house, entering by a French window and giving the queerly occupied front veranda a wide berth.