Towne did not eat lunch. He pleaded important business, and had his car brought around. But everybody knew that he was following Jane. Mystery was in the air. Adelaide was restless. Only Edith knew the truth.
After lunch, she told Lucy. “Jane isn’t going to marry Uncle Fred. I don’t know why. But I am afraid it is breaking up your house party.”
“I hope it is,” said Lucy, calmly. “Delafield is bored to death. He wants to get back to his pigs and roses. I am speaking frankly to you because I know you understand. I want our lives to be bigger and broader than they would have been if we hadn’t met. And as for you”—her voice shook a little—“you’ll always be a sort of goddess blessing our hearth.”
Edith bent and kissed her, emotion gripping her. “Your hearth is blessed without me,” she said, “but I’ll always be glad to come.”
Towne, riding like mad along the Virginia roads, behind the competent Briggs, reread Jane’s letter.
“I was not up-stairs last night when you came. I was asleep in the window-seat of the living-room, just off the porch. And your voice waked me and I heard what you said, and Mrs. Laramore. And I can’t marry you. I know how much you’ve done for me,—and I shall never forget your goodness. Baldy will take me home.”
Enclosed was a pink check.
Towne blamed Adelaide furiously. Of course it was her fault. Such foolishness. And sentimentality. And he had been weak enough to fall for it.
Yet, as he cooled a bit, he was glad that Jane had showed her resentment. It was in keeping with his conception of her. Her innocence had flamed against such sophistication. There might, too, be a hint of jealousy. Women were like that. Jealous.
As they whirled through Washington, Briggs voiced his fears. “If we meet a cop it will be all up with us, Mr. Towne.”