At the opening of the door, the wind tore the pictures from the piano, wrenching the faded green mandarin skirt which Gerty had brought from San Francisco. Her sketches were flung to the floor. Gerty ran into her room, shutting herself in against further argument. Tom fastened the outer door, replacing the sketches that stood for the sum and height of his wife’s several flights, her separate career.
He was still staring through them, when his wife came back into the room, powdered and heavily veiled against the wind. A heavy winter ulster covered the new mull gown which she had not worn at supper, though Innes could have helped her with the hooks! But there was always so much talk about everything!
They had to face the gale as the machine swept down the wind-crazed street. “Never saw such a blow in all the time I’ve been here,” yelled Wooster over his wheel to Hardin.
“Where’s Mr. MacLean?” Gerty leaned over from the back seat where she had been huddling. She felt awkwardly conscious of not having invited Wooster. She did not have any other reason for excluding him, except that she did not meet him at the other houses. Still, if Rickard were not coming—they would be short a man.
“He had some work to finish—he asked me to take out the machine,” called Wooster without turning. The dust was blinding him.
“He’s probably coming later!” cried Gerty to Innes, and then she huddled in her corner again. It was easier not to talk; one had to scream to be heard.
It was too bad to have a night like this! And all her work—Tom and his sister would have it go for nothing! She was made of stubborner stuff than that. Life had been dealing out mean hands to her, but she would not drop out of the game, acknowledge herself beaten—luck would turn, she would get better cards. To-night she was tired. It had been a hard scrambling day. Several times she could have cried. Sam was so stupid, she could not make him understand where he was to leave things at the hotel—if anything happened to those shades, or to that salad!
In the hall of the Desert Hotel, the party was assembling. Mr. and Mrs. Blinn were already the center of a group, flinging matrimonial volleys. Innes could hear Blinn’s loud voice as she entered the door: “That was before we were married. Now, it’s very different. That’s what matrimony does.” Every one knew they covered their devotion with chronic jeers. She steered toward another corner where the Wilsons held court.
“Too bad, isn’t it?” Mrs. Youngberg advanced toward Gerty, who was looking for Rickard. She did not like to ask if he had come.
Howard Blinn broke off to greet his hostess. “You saved our lives by being a little late,” he exclaimed. “Our dinner was late. It’s always late, since the Improvement Club was organized!”