And so Jane and Adelaide were left alone.
Adelaide sat in a big chair with a back like a spreading fan; she was statuesque, and knew it, but she would have exchanged at the moment every classic line for the effect that Jane gave of unpremeditated grace and beauty. The child had flung a cushion on the marble step, and had dropped down upon it. The wind caught up her ruffles, so that she seemed to float in a cloud.
She laughed, and tucked her whirling draperies about her. “I love the wind, don’t you?”
Adelaide did not love the wind. It rumpled her hair. She felt spitefully ready to hurt Jane.
“It is a pity,” she said, after a pause, “that Ricky can’t dine with us.”
Jane agreed. “Mr. Towne always seems to be a very busy person.”
Adelaide carried a little gauze fan with gold-lacquered sticks. When she spoke she kept her eyes upon the fan. “Do you always call him ‘Mr. Towne’?”
“Of course.”
“But not when you’re alone.”