CHAPTER XVII
INTERLUDE
August ripened into September, and the Park underwent a subtle and fascinating change. In the meadows the hay lay in long windrows, golden green; on the slopes vermilion flowers succeeded blue; in the sunsets tender pinks yielded to burnt orange and vivid red. The nights had grown perceptibly colder, but the days were still warm and dry and radiant, though with a tang in the air that stirred the blood. And a thousand perfumes, known and unknown, distilled from meadow and field and forest, scented every vagrant breeze.
Marion was soon herself again, in body if not in mind. A few long nights of sleep, a few days in the saddle, and sufficient nourishment (for she had neglected herself at Haig’s, despite Jim’s solicitude) restored her physically to what she had been on the day of Haig’s accident. But she, too, had changed, and as subtly as the season.
“What’s come over Marion?” asked Huntington of Claire one day, after he had caught himself regarding her with the rapt interest of a discoverer.
Claire looked at him pityingly. She knew, but she was not going to tell him.
“Why?” she asked innocently.
“Well, I don’t exactly know,” he replied doubtfully. 187 “She’s prettier than ever––but so are you. That isn’t it. She’s kind of––It’s no use. I don’t know.”
Claire laughed, and then became severe.
“That’s because she’s forgiven you,” she said.