It was a dream still so simple and vague that she was not conscious of wishing for Warren Gregory's presence, or of being much happier when they were together than when she was deliciously alone with her thoughts of him.
About a month after the Whittaker tea Rachael found herself seated in the tile-floored tea-room at the country club with Florence. There had been others in the group, theoretically for tea, but these were scattered now, and among the various bottles and glasses on the table there was no sign of a teacup.
"So glad to see you alone a moment, Rachael--one never does," said Florence. "Tell me, do you go to the Villalongas'?"
"Clarence and Billy will, I suppose," the other woman said with an enigmatic smile.
"But not you?"
"Perhaps; I don't know, Florence." Rachael's serene eyes roved the summer landscape contentedly. Mrs. Haviland looked a little puzzled.
"Things are better, aren't they, dear?" she asked delicately.
"Things?"
"Between you and Clarence, I mean."
"Oh! Yes, perhaps they are. Changed, perhaps."