“Give me time to dress.”
“Three?”
“Yes.”
When luncheon was over, Jane went up-stairs to get into out-of-door clothes. At the foot of the stairs she had a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror. She wore a one-piece lilac cotton frock—with a small square apron, and an infinitesimal bib. It was a nice-looking little frock, but she had had it for a million years. That was the way with all her clothes. The suit she was going to put on had been dyed. It had been white in its first incarnation. It was now brown. There was no telling its chromatic future.
She heard steps on the porch, and turned to open the door for Evans.
But it was not Evans. Briggs, Frederick Towne’s chauffeur, stood there with a box in his arms. “Mr. Towne’s compliments,” he said, “and shall I set it in the hall?”
“Oh, yes, thank you.” Her surprise brought the quick color to her cheeks. She watched him go back down the terrace, and enter the car, then she opened the box.
Beneath clouds of white tissue paper she came upon a long, low basket, heaped with grapes and tangerines, peaches and pomegranates. Tucked in between the fruits were shelled nuts in fluted paper cases, gleaming sweets in small glass jars, candied pineapples and cherries, bunches of fat raisins, stuffed dates and prunes.
Jane talked to the empty air. “How dear of him——”
The white tissue paper fell in drifts about her as she lifted the basket from the box.