She walked slowly back toward the house, turning once, and once again, to look behind her at the vanishing line of coast. She shivered, covering her head with her black Spanish lace and drawing it close over the bosom of the white gown that she had forgotten to change.
She had forgotten time that day. As much had crowded into a few hours as might fill a life. Henceforth time would be too much with her.
Her foot was on the veranda step when she saw a pink coat turn in at the drive gate. She strained her eyes. Charlie Thair—and without a hat. She had never before seen him, out-of-doors, without a hat. As he drew up the drive at a quick canter, she thought he had reined in a yet quicker pace. She stood, arrested in mid-motion, turning to him a face that was a question. He was the first to speak, hailing her while barely within distance, as if to make sure of the first word.
“Where is Mrs. Budd, Mrs. Essington?”
“She drove over to the country club with the others to see the finish. What—”
“Thank God! Are you the only one here?”
“Yes. What is it?”
“Did they take the victoria?”
“No; who is hurt?”
He only looked at her.