“Not Bill Thorndike surely?” said Grand, coming forward on his chair with a show of concern.
“Oh, it’s just absolutely maddening!” said Ginger Horton. “I don’t even want to ... to talk about it. Not in front of Bitsy, anyway.”
“The dog?” said Grand. “It’s asleep, isn’t it?”
“Bitsy knows, of course,” said Miss Horton darkly, ignoring this, “and only too well!”
“Ginger,” said Agnes, “can you really be so sure of that?”
“Oh, in simply a thousand-thousand ways,” said Ginger Horton.
“Do you remember that young Mr. Laird K. Russell?” asked Esther of Agnes in the pause that followed. “He came to our Westport summer ball for little Nancy.”
“Great Heavens, Esther, that was over sixty years ago! Surely you don’t mean it!”
Esther nodded, her eyes dim with distant marvel, a pale smile on her lips.
“Esther, really!”