they were dancing too long—-I always told Marie a woman of her age simply had to draw the line somewhere. She hadn’t a thing on above the waist, and it’s been cold you know, dear, it really has. I suppose you’ll go back to New York to live now, Iris darling, Washington must be an awful bore really, when you don’t really belong, and I’m simply making Gilbert take a six months’ vacation, we’re going to the Orient. I’ve been down to see about reservations this morning. Dear Gilbert wants to go immediately, tomorrow—he’s so impulsive when he makes up his mind, nothing can stop him. I know poor dear Randall won’t mind my not going to his funeral.”
“I’m sure he won’t,” Iris said.
I wondered vaguely at this flinging of the gauntlet. So she was keeping Gilbert then, even at the expense—which must have been a good deal to Edith—of taking him away for six months at the very beginning of the Season. Still, it wasn’t surprising at all except in view of the astonishing information Lowell had thought she had, that Edith had tried to get Randall to divorce Iris so she and Gilbert could marry. However, that hadn’t made sense from the beginning, so I discarded it promptly for the more realistic statement of her case that Edith had just finished, or at any rate was well into.
She blew the burned stub of her cigarette out of its jewel-encrusted holder, and put the holder in her bag. She powdered her nose, repaired the slight dent in the thick coating of her lip stick, put her vanity back in her bag and got up.
“Dear Iris—it’s so marvelous to see you bearing up so wonderfully. You must see she gets out for a little walk, Grace, and a facial, darling; a facial will take that haggard look out of your face, dear, and I don’t think it pays to let yourself go, even in time like these. If dear Gilbert weren’t so rushed I know he’d be glad to take you for a little drive, he’s so wonderful that way, he took my great-aunt Sophie to a movie the other day and she’s so frightfully deaf. I’ll see if I can’t persuade him to come around, dear.”
“Don’t bother, please, Edith,” Iris said. She got up. “It was sweet of you to come. I know how busy you must be getting ready to leave. I’ll understand your not having time to come in again before you go. Goodbye, my dear.”
She came back from the door.
“What is it Mr. McClean says about not letting our private feelings complicate matters? It’s wonderful to have your private feelings so well under your thumb.”
She walked down to the garden windows and stood looking out. I saw her body stiffen suddenly, and her hand tighten on the looped folds of the gold taffeta curtain. She turned back toward me, and stood there, looking silently at me, her face utterly white.
I hurried down to her, and looked out. Across the garden, where the snow lay in dirty patches on the sodden grass, were three men. One of them had a spade, and he was digging a hole by the wall. Thrown to one side, trampled in the mud, was a wreath of holly and mistletoe.
It seemed a strange place to be digging. I looked at Iris, bewildered.
She stood there very erect and rigid, straightening her shoulders, her face still deathly white, the pupils of her green eyes contracted to pin points in the bright light.
“It’s the dog,” she whispered. “They’re digging up Senator McGilvray.”
Her hand tightened until it was white on the curtain.
“Oh my God, Grace—then he was poisoned… and they know it! How awful! How awful!”
She stopped abruptly and we both turned at the sound of a voice behind us. Wilkins was standing there. Neither of us had heard him come in.
“The police are in the garden, madame.”
His soft voice made my spine curl.
“Captain Lamb is in the library—will you see him, madame? There’s another gentleman, a Mr. Doyle, with him. He says you expect him. Shall I show him in, madame?”
“Yes.”
“Very good, madame.—How many will
“I’m sure he won’t,” Iris said.
I wondered vaguely at this flinging of the gauntlet. So she was keeping Gilbert then, even at the expense—which must have been a good deal to Edith—of taking him away for six months at the very beginning of the Season. Still, it wasn’t surprising at all except in view of the astonishing information Lowell had thought she had, that Edith had tried to get Randall to divorce Iris so she and Gilbert could marry. However, that hadn’t made sense from the beginning, so I discarded it promptly for the more realistic statement of her case that Edith had just finished, or at any rate was well into.
She blew the burned stub of her cigarette out of its jewel-encrusted holder, and put the holder in her bag. She powdered her nose, repaired the slight dent in the thick coating of her lip stick, put her vanity back in her bag and got up.
“Dear Iris—it’s so marvelous to see you bearing up so wonderfully. You must see she gets out for a little walk, Grace, and a facial, darling; a facial will take that haggard look out of your face, dear, and I don’t think it pays to let yourself go, even in time like these. If dear Gilbert weren’t so rushed I know he’d be glad to take you for a little drive, he’s so wonderful that way, he took my great-aunt Sophie to a movie the other day and she’s so frightfully deaf. I’ll see if I can’t persuade him to come around, dear.”
“Don’t bother, please, Edith,” Iris said. She got up. “It was sweet of you to come. I know how busy you must be getting ready to leave. I’ll understand your not having time to come in again before you go. Goodbye, my dear.”
She came back from the door.
“What is it Mr. McClean says about not letting our private feelings complicate matters? It’s wonderful to have your private feelings so well under your thumb.”
She walked down to the garden windows and stood looking out. I saw her body stiffen suddenly, and her hand tighten on the looped folds of the gold taffeta curtain. She turned back toward me, and stood there, looking silently at me, her face utterly white.
I hurried down to her, and looked out. Across the garden, where the snow lay in dirty patches on the sodden grass, were three men. One of them had a spade, and he was digging a hole by the wall. Thrown to one side, trampled in the mud, was a wreath of holly and mistletoe.
It seemed a strange place to be digging. I looked at Iris, bewildered.
She stood there very erect and rigid, straightening her shoulders, her face still deathly white, the pupils of her green eyes contracted to pin points in the bright light.
“It’s the dog,” she whispered. “They’re digging up Senator McGilvray.”
Her hand tightened until it was white on the curtain.
“Oh my God, Grace—then he was poisoned… and they know it! How awful! How awful!”
She stopped abruptly and we both turned at the sound of a voice behind us. Wilkins was standing there. Neither of us had heard him come in.
“The police are in the garden, madame.”
His soft voice made my spine curl.
“Captain Lamb is in the library—will you see him, madame? There’s another gentleman, a Mr. Doyle, with him. He says you expect him. Shall I show him in, madame?”
“Yes.”
“Very good, madame.—How many will
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