“No.”
She walked quickly to the telephone, raised her hand to take down the receiver, then hesitated. She knew that it would be a simple matter to telephone to Mauney. It was only ten o’clock. And so much depended, it seemed, on her telephoning to him just now. Dropping upon the telephone stool she placed her hand again on the receiver and kept it there. She was quite unconscious of her father’s presence nearby. The only thought in her mind was that Mauney was suffering. It would be so easy to say: “Please come down; I want to see you.” But her hand slowly relaxed and fell into her lap. Her will power had strangely left her.
“I’m going to bed,” announced her father, coming out into the hallway, yawning. As he reached the foot of the staircase he paused. “By the way,” he said. “There were a couple of important people down from Merlton this evening, Freda!”
“Anything promising?” she asked vacantly.
“Nothing to the public, mind!” he smiled, raising his hand in a gesture of caution. “But, between friends, I’ll drop a word of cheer. These gentlemen are looking for a site for a really big concern. They’ve got a factory in their minds that covers ten acres and I let ’em know that Lockwood had that much ground for them, too. Aren’t you tickled?”
“Oh, yes,” nodded Freda automatically, although she did not know what he had said. When he had gone to his bedroom, she rose from the stool knowing that she was quite incapable of telephoning to Mauney.
The house seemed quieter than it had ever been before. Removing her sweater-coat, she literally pitched it into a corner and went out on the verandah. Careless of all but the wild regret that was torturing her she dropped into a hammock and clasped her head with her hands. Whenever she glanced between her fingers she saw the lawn with its dismal pines and a faint mist that curled up over the edge of the cliff nearby. The lights of the United States shore, usually so bright, were shut out by a fog.
Presently, from the gateway next the street, two pencils of brilliant light quivered against the pine trunks, and, slowly swerving, illuminated the house, as a motor car softly approached. The man who drove it saw the verandah clearly and the form of a woman reclining in the hammock. She had evidently thrown herself down very carelessly, for her black stocking stood out in bold contrasts with the yellow hammock. Edward Courtney followed down the graceful lines to her ankle and to the neat patent-leather Oxford, whose tip barely rested on the floor. Having finished his admiring inspection he sounded his horn blatantly and touched into silence the soft purr of the motor as he drew near and stopped.
Freda sat quickly up.
“Want a spin?” he asked, turning toward her over the side of the car.