She was very good looking—a wholesome, bonny type, with an air of executive ability and absolute savoir faire.
Her hair was dead gold, bobbed and worn straight, I think they call it a Dutch bob. Anyway, she had a trace of Dutch effect and reminded me of that early picture of Queen Wilhelmina.
She sent me to my room to brush up but told me I needn’t change as the bungalow was run informally.
The place rejoiced in the name of “Variable Winds,” and though the Moores guyed the idea of having a name for such an unpretentious affair, they admitted it was at least appropriate.
I returned to the living room to find the group augmented by a few more people: one house guest and two or three neighbours.
Cocktails appeared and the cheery atmosphere dispelled the darksome and gloomy effects that had marked our drive from the station.
I found myself next my fellow guest, a pleasant-faced lady, who introduced herself.
“I’m Maud Merrill,” she vouchsafed. “I’m staying here, so you must learn to like me.”
“No trouble at all,” I told her, and honestly, for I liked her at once.
She was a widow, perhaps thirty or so, with white hair and deep blue eyes. I judged her hair was prematurely grayed, for her face was young and attractive.