“Come on,” urged Cleeburg.
An instant more Brooks hesitated. Then his head went back.
“All right, I’m with you.” And he laughed as if with relief.
They stopped off for his bag. They were still using the open car in spite of the winds of late October. Gloria liked the slash of air against her face, liked to get the first salty whiff of the Sound. She leaned back with lids drooping and hands clasped loosely and was silent all the way. The men talked of next year’s prospects.
“‘Lady Fair’ is good for next year and a season in London. Think I’ll let you and Gloria take it over. [188] ]She’s never had a lick at the other side,” chuckled Cleeburg. “Bound to knock ’em silly.”
Gloria spoke for the first time.
“I wouldn’t think about London—just yet.”
Cleeburg started at the queer note in her voice. They turned into the drive where willows drooped their branches to the ground. Beyond shone the lights of the rambling old house, modernized by the family who had owned and loved it for generations, but untouched as to line or grace. High ceilings, French windows, arched doorways, tall fireplaces—these constituted the charm of the estate little ’Dolph had presented to the woman who had given him happiness.
Supper for two was spread before the flaming logs at one end of the entrance hall. In the center of the table stood a bowl of autumn leaves, the wild red of Gloria’s hair. Cleeburg pulled up another chair as the chauffeur brought in their guest’s bag and helped him out of his overcoat.
The latter stood gazing round the place with a look of real affection.