“Oh, Flora,” she said. “Come out and take a look at the sunset. It’s something grand.”
The woman stepped out and stood beside them. She had changed her costume and her narrow blue linen dress outlined her too slender figure. Shine thought she would have been pretty if she had not looked so worn and thin. He noticed the brightness of her dark eyes, brilliant and quick-moving as a bird’s. There was red on her cheek-bones, a flushed patch that was not rouge. Mrs. Cornell’s expression recurred to him, “burning up”—the meager body, the hot high color, the dry lips resolutely smiling, suggested inner fires.
“Yes,” she answered, “it’s a wonderful evening.”
“Take a cig.” Mrs. Cornell offered the box.
“Sit down, there’s plenty of room.” Shine moved up.
“No, I can’t sit down. There’s something about the air that makes you restless—too stimulating maybe.” She raised her voice and called to her husband, “Aleck, aren’t you coming in to change your clothes?”
Without moving the man called back:
“Not yet. There’s no hurry.”
She turned to Shine with a little condoning air of wifely tolerance:
“Mr. Stokes has been shut up so long in town he can’t get enough of the fresh air.”