That night Dan brought his wife some roses and told her she had on a becoming dress; he was glad Cora Spooner was to be Owen’s clerk—after all, it took all kinds of fools to make a world.
And on the same night Thurley, closing her season, received among other offerings a handsome basket of orchids and lilies tied with silvery tulle. The card said, “From an old friend.”
CHAPTER XXIV
Thurley’s summer was spent unwisely. She excused this by apparently sound reasons. First, she was tired from the season’s work and the unusual social demands which it seemed wisest to endure. Secondly, her jealous curiosity was roused at Bliss Hobart’s mysterious departure without explanation of where he was going or how long he would remain away, an almost brusque leave-taking which consisted of a brief cup of tea at Thurley’s apartment, telling her some critical things about her voice and answering lightly when she questioned him as to his whereabouts,
“I go to my castle in Spain, really, nothing but a simple little hermitage in the Maine woods. I assure you it would be of no interest. Now I must be off, for it is like uprooting an oak every time I go away. I like to leave things as shipshape as possible before I begin to play.”
“Are you never lonesome?” she persisted.
“I’ve all the inhabitants of the forest,” he answered. “Good-by. I understand you’ve accepted for the yachting party, the one Lissa is giving.” His face expressed displeasure.
Thurley nodded; she had intended to escape it until this identical moment when his bland, impersonal manner was fuel for her folly.