They thought she might, but her hospitable purpose was never fulfilled, for as she stepped out on the porch, a long, low limousine stopped in front of the house, and out of it came Jane in all the glory of a great bunch of orchids, and with a man by her side, whose elegance measured up to the limousine and the lovely flowers.
They came up the path and Jane said, “Mrs. Allison, may I present Mr. Towne, and will you give him a cup of tea?”
“Indeed, I will,” Mrs. Allison seemed to rise on wings of gratification, “only it is chocolate and not tea.”
And Frederick said that he adored chocolate, and presently Mrs. Allison’s little living-room was all in a pleasant flutter; and over on Jane’s terrace, Evans Follette sat, a lonely sentinel, and pondered on the limousine, and the elegance of Jane’s escort.
Once old Sophy called to him, “You’ll ketch your death, Mr. Evans.”
He shook his head and smiled at her. A man who had lived through a winter in the trenches thought nothing of this. Physical cold was easy to endure. The cold that clutched at his heart was the thing that frightened him.
The early night came on. There were lights now in Mrs. Allison’s house, and within was warmth and laughter. The old ladies, excited and eager, told each other in flashing asides that Mr. Towne was the great Frederick Towne. The one whose name was so often in the papers, and his niece, Edith, had been deserted at the altar. “You know, my dear, the one who ran away.”
When Jane said that she must be getting home, they pressed around her, sniffing her flowers, saying pleasant things of her prettiness—hinting of Towne’s absorption in her.
She laughed and sparkled. It was a joyous experience. Mr. Towne had a way of making her feel important. And the adulation of the old ladies added to her elation.
As Frederick and Jane walked across the street towards the little house on the terrace, a gaunt figure rose from the top step and greeted them.