Deb responded flauntingly to their expectations. Impossible anyway to efface herself from the conspicuous position she occupied as “Frau Koch’s visitor.” Guests were rare in Dorzheim; no jolly, casual happening, but a solemn event which exacted a whole code of ceremonial. And even then the visitors were usually somebody’s relations. But all of a sudden a strange girl—from that mad country—even Frau Koch confessing to a minimum of previous acquaintance.... “The poor Marianna tells me she had no idea that the father would permit it.” “Odd, very odd. Has she money, do you know?” “Oh, surely; her dresses are of the best material, even though they are fashioned in a style ... dearest Frau Bergmann—that skirt!”
And then Ralph von Sittart had strolled into the party; handsome, middle-aged German-American, who propped up his indolence by an elderly wife’s income. And it had been a well-nigh hysterical relief for Deb to hear English spoken.... Frau von Sittart’s face ... the whispers ... and all the knitting-needles clacking....
She had behaved outrageously. But only under the goad of alert protest to her entire personality, to her slightest act. She was in a false position from the start. She should not have come. She had only come because of John Thorpe’s mother and the ear-trumpet....
III
At this stage of her attempts to track consequences to their motive lair, Deb became aware that her feet were being plagued by pins and needles, and that she most desperately desired to wriggle. She judged that it would be safe now to awake from slumber ... it must be a full half-hour that she and Felix Koch were lying motionless side by side. She opened her eyes, raised herself on one elbow, sighed deeply, as one who yields up a pleasant dreamland. Then only did she perceive that all this pantomime was unnecessary; her companion was quite peacefully asleep.
Deb slithered off the couch, tip-toed to the door, closed it soundlessly behind her. No one was in the hall. She ran upstairs, and knocked at the door of her brother’s room.
Richard, in his shirt-sleeves, was standing in front of the looking-glass; and with a brush ferociously brandished in either hand, was frustrating his hair’s racial inclination to curl.
“Are you dressing for supper? The others don’t, you know.”
“No reason for me to be a barbarian, if they are, is it?”
“When in Rome——”