The taxi started on and Farrell turned off at the next crossroad.
"He's a great boss, but a queer one," he said to his wife. "It's a queer family all around. I wonder what's being cooked up now."
As the time of Farrell's expected return drew near Pauline's despair and anger increased with every moment. When four o'clock struck she arose and walked nervously out to the garage to ask if any word had been received from Farrell. She found Owen there.
As she turned toward him, after her futile questioning, Pauline's grief suddenly mounted to anger.
"It is after four, and Farrell has not returned," she exclaimed.
She had come out to the yard in the exquisite white gown that she was to wear to the wedding, a flashing jewel at her white throat, her hair done regally high. Now, in her anger, she was a picture of fury made beautiful.
Her outburst was interrupted by a messenger boy with a telegram. She opened the message with nervous fingers.
"Blow out. Can't get back this evening," she read.
She tore the message into pieces, dropped them and, stamped upon them with her white slippers.
"It's true, it's true!" she cried, turning desperately to Owen.