Emily Grimshaw sat forward in her chair and passed her hand across her eyes.
“Say that again. It didn’t—register.”
Judy laughed. She could see that her employer was coming back to her senses.
“You tell her, Horace.” She motioned to her brother who had been sitting beside the table with Pauline and Arthur, listening.
Joy Holiday’s story was a real romance, however badly told. But Horace Bolton, the reporter, made the tale so vivid that the five who heard it lived the adventure all over again. Whatever else it did, it cleared Emily Grimshaw’s clouded brain and brought the old, practical look back into her eyes.
Arthur wound up by telling of his search by air for Irene’s distracted father. Now, if only Irene could explain about the poetry, they had nothing to fear.
Opening the door quietly, Judy beckoned to the two figures who sat in the hammock. As Dale stood up, outlined against the sky, it reminded her of that first night that she and Pauline had found them there and they had been invited to that never-to-be-forgotten dance on the hotel roof garden. She caught Irene’s hand as she entered the door. Impulsively she kissed her.
“Tell us about it now, dear,” she murmured. “The boys and I will understand and I’m sure Pauline will too. And if Emily Grimshaw gets another queer spell we’ll send her packing with her precious poetry. We have what we want—you.”
The agent looked up as Irene entered the room. She stared for a moment as if the girl’s golden beauty fascinated her. Then she passed one hand across her forehead, smoothing out the furrows that twenty years had left there. The light of understanding came into her eyes.
“You are ... you are the image of your mother,” she said at last. “While you live Joy Holiday will never be dead.”