Her chin was firm.
Her step was light.
Her eyes danced with defiance.
Andy Dunne would have been proud of her.
She was game.
CHAPTER XIV
ROUSED into semi-wakefulness by the first shaft of sunlight that pierced the Bungalow windows, Mr. Jacob Remsen indulged in sleepy self-communion.
“Who are we this morning? Not our bright and lovely self. That’s a cinch... Rodney Carteret? No: we shook Rodney in New York... Veyze! That’s it; Montrose Veyze. Sir Montrose, if you please.... Oh, Lord! The bride.” Unaccustomed though he was to allow the sun’s early rays to pry him forth from his slumbers, the man of aliases leapt out of bed, chuckled himself through his toilet and breakfast, and still emitting sub-sounds, not so much of glee as of a profound and abiding satisfaction in life, took the road for Center Harbor. Darcy, still wrapped in dreams at the Farmhouse, would have made the distance in better time; nevertheless, his hour-and-a-half was a fairly creditable performance. In consequence of certain telephonic efforts of the previous evening, he expected to find an express package at his destination, wherein he was not disappointed.
At eleven o’clock, Darcy rambled down the long, wooded driveway, leading from the Farmhouse to the lake. Off to her right, where a little brook brawled gayly down among rounded boulders, another dryad-haunted tree burst into soft, familiar music. She answered the whistled melody with a pipe of her own, as true and sweet.
“Coast clear?” asked the tree, which, for a good American hickory, spoke with a surprisingly British accent.