That’s Not Love
SERENA PAGE’S COUNTRY PLACE WAS A HOUSE OF MIRTH,
BUT MERRIMENT AND TRAGEDY ARE OFTEN
CLOSE TOGETHER
By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding
A gay world, that summer morning! The sprinkler on the lawn flung a rainbow mist into the air, and left tiny diamonds shining on the grass blades. Everything was astir—the leaves rustling on the trees, gay flowers swaying on their stalks. Curtains fluttered at the open windows, and through the cool, bright house voices came floating, light as butterflies. Serena Page had arisen.
To be sure, she had told her house guests the night before that just because she had to get up was no reason why any one else should be disturbed at the outrageous hour of half past eight; but somehow everybody was disturbed. Somehow her getting up made confusion all through the house; for that was Serena’s especial talent—to create an exciting sort of bustle about her, without herself doing anything at all. Serena! Never was a woman so misnamed!
She came down the stairs, her filmy black negligee floating out behind her, so that she seemed, as always, to be coming in a breeze—an artificial breeze, though, perfumed and enervating, bringing no health or color. She was without make-up at this early hour. Her handsome, haggard face was pale, her eyes were heavy.
She entered the breakfast room, and there was the Moriarty girl, standing by the window.
“Good morning, Mrs. Page,” she said, with that enigmatic smile of hers.
Serena smiled, too, but faintly. Geraldine Moriarty was beginning to get on her nerves very badly, and she was longing for an excuse to fly into a rage with the girl. That was the only way Serena could get rid of people. She could do nothing in cold blood. She had taken on Geraldine in an outburst of generosity, and she would have to have an outburst of anger before she could send her away.
“Had breakfast?” she inquired.