"Steve was called to Lower Field. I—I doubt if he can ride with you this morning, Mrs. Denbigh."
If a glance could have accomplished it, Jerry would have been neatly and expeditiously skinned, then and there. Felice's voice had the edge of a hari-kari sword as she answered:
"Steve is the person to decide that. Which way to Lower Field, Mr. Greyson?" Her host's eyes flamed.
"If Mrs. Courtlandt thinks——"
"Oh, but Mrs. Courtlandt doesn't think," protested Jerry laughingly. "Do show Mrs. Denbigh the way to Lower Field, Bruce. I should be delighted to go myself but for a letter which must be ready for Sandy this morning. You will find——"
Felice Denbigh was off before she had finished her sentence. Greyson followed without a word. Jerry looked after the two with troubled eyes. Her thoughts were in a turmoil.
"What has happened to Bruce Greyson?" she thought anxiously. "His conversational output has shrunk till what he says seems a waste of breath, it amounts to so little. One would think he was under a spell. I wonder—I wonder if Steve did make a date with her?" she mused aloud as she crossed the court on her way to the office. José, busy among his flowers, swept off his hat with his single-tooth smile.
"Buenos dias, Señora. My roses bloom brighter as you pass, yes?" Benito, balancing on one claw on the rim of the fountain, shivered, blinked his yellow eyes and croaked hoarsely:
"Piffle!"
With a shocked exclamation José flung a chunk of loam at the parrot. It hit him squarely and knocked him backward into the shallow basin. With frightened squawks and much ruffling of feathers the bird regained his place on the basin's rim. For an instant he indulged in a what-hit-me blink, then with his gaudy plumage looking as though it had been electrified croaked angrily: