“Don’t trouble to put the bills uppermost,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “That will do nicely, Peter; come and sit down, you look warm,” and her pointed knitting needle indicated the vacant arm chair, the mate to the one she was occupying, which, with her chair and a table, about filled the octagon-shaped wing of her boudoir.
Burnham sat down with a short, discontented sigh. “I can’t conceive why we closed the Lodge and came in town so early,” he grumbled, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief. “Washington is unbearable.”
“The nights are not so bad, and if you would keep cool, Peter, you would not feel the heat so much.” Mrs. Burnham took up her knitting. “If I remember correctly it was you who first suggested our returning this month.”
Burnham moved restlessly and pursed up his lips. “Well, what could we do with Evelyn taking the bit in her teeth?” he demanded. “You cannot detain a girl in a convent by force, and she could not remain in this city unchaperoned.”
“True.” Mrs. Burnham contented herself with the single word and knitted on in silence.
“It is a great pity, Lillian,” complained Burnham, growing restive under the short quick glances with which his wife favored him, “that your discipline was so lax; in consequence, Evelyn has grown up with the idea that her wish is law.”
“She comes of a headstrong race,” acknowledged Mrs. Burnham, with a half sigh. “Do not worry, Peter, Evelyn will consider herself madly in love a dozen times before she actually finds the man she will marry.”
Burnham leaned back in his chair and thrust his hands in his pockets. “René La Montagne is still in town,” he announced.
“Not really?” Mrs. Burnham laid aside her knitting. “I understood he had been detailed to one of the aviation training camps in the South.”
“He hasn’t gone yet for Maynard told me that he saw him at the Shoreham Tuesday night.” Mrs. Burnham made no comment and her husband added with suppressed vehemence, “Tough luck!”