dinner, she still lingered. It was as if the woman sitting on the other side of the table, a girl that she had known, who had done this rather dangerous and, to Irene Redfield, abhorrent thing successfully and had announced herself well satisfied, had for her a fascination, strange and compelling.
Clare Kendry was still leaning back in the tall chair, her sloping shoulders against the carved top. She sat with an air of indifferent assurance, as if arranged for, desired. About her clung that dim suggestion of polite insolence with which a few women are born and which some acquire with the coming of riches or importance.
Clare, it gave Irene a little prick of satisfaction to recall, hadnât got that by passing herself off as white. She herself had always had it.
Just as sheâd always had that pale gold hair, which, unsheared still, was drawn loosely back from a broad brow, partly hidden by the small close hat. Her lips, painted a brilliant geranium-red, were sweet and sensitive and a little obstinate. A tempting mouth. The face across the forehead and cheeks was a trifle too wide, but the ivory skin had a peculiar soft lustre. And the eyes were magnificent! dark, sometimes absolutely black, always luminous, and set in long, black lashes. Arresting eyes, slow and mesmeric, and with, for all their warmth, something withdrawn and secret about them.
Ah! Surely! They were Negro eyes! mysterious and concealing. And set in that ivory face under that bright hair, there was about them something exotic.
Yes, Clare Kendryâs loveliness was absolute, beyond challenge, thanks to those eyes which her grandmother and later her mother and father had given her.
Into those eyes there came a smile and over Irene the sense of being petted and caressed. She smiled back.
âMaybe,â Clare suggested, âyou can come Monday, if youâre back. Or, if youâre not, then Tuesday.â
With a small regretful sigh, Irene informed Clare that she was afraid she wouldnât be back by Monday and that she was sure she had dozens of things for Tuesday, and that she was leaving Wednesday. It might be, however, that she could get out of something Tuesday.
âOh, do try. Do put somebody else off. The others can see you any time, while IâWhy, I may never see you again! Think of that, âRene! Youâll have to come. Youâll simply have to! Iâll never forgive you if you donât.â
At that moment it seemed a dreadful thing to think of never seeing Clare Kendry again. Standing there under the appeal, the caress, of her eyes, Irene had the desire, the hope, that this parting wouldnât be the last.
âIâll try, Clare,â she promised gently. âIâll call youâor will you call me?â
âI think, perhaps, Iâd better call you. Your fatherâs in the book, I know, and the address is the same. Sixty-four eighteen. Some memory, what? Now remember, Iâm going to expect you. Youâve got to be able to come.â
Again that peculiar mellowing smile.
âIâll do my best, Clare.â
Irene gathered up her gloves and bag. They stood up. She put out her hand. Clare took and held it.
âIt has been nice seeing you again, Clare. How pleased and glad fatherâll be to hear about you!â
âUntil Tuesday, then,â Clare Kendry replied. âIâll spend every minute of the time from now on looking forward to seeing you again. Good-bye, âRene dear. My love to your father, and this kiss for him.â
The sun had gone from overhead, but the streets were still like fiery furnaces. The languid breeze was still hot. And the scurrying people looked even more wilted than before Irene had fled from their contact.
Crossing the avenue in the heat, far from the coolness of the Draytonâs roof, away from the seduction of Clare Kendryâs smile, she was aware of a sense of irritation with herself because she had been pleased and a
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