Will O’ the Wisp by Patricia Wentworth Page B

open and blank with fright. She looked up, saw Eleanor, and came up the remaining stairs with a rush.
    â€œOoh! You nearly killed me! Put the light out—put it out quick!”
    She pushed open her own bedroom door, dragged Eleanor in, and turned out the passage light from the switch just outside. Then she shut the door and put on the light in the ceiling.
    â€œDid you want to kill me? You nearly did.”
    â€œFolly, where have you been?”
    Folly pulled off her cloak, rolled it into a ball, and flung it across the room.
    â€œâ€™M—” she said. “That’s the question!”
    She was in her nightgown, a flimsy transparent affair, white, with pink flowers on it. Her little feet were as bare and pink as a baby’s.
    Eleanor looked at the hem of the flimsy nightgown. It had been drizzling with rain all the afternoon; the mist was breast-high outside; park, and grass, and stone-paved walk must all be dripping wet. The little flowered night-gown was dry and crisp. The little pink feet were dry.
    Folly stood looking at her toes. She shot an innocent glance at Eleanor’s puzzled face, then she twiddled the toes.
    â€œThey’re quite dry,” she said with modest pride.
    â€œFolly, where have you been?”
    â€œOn a broomstick over the moon.”
    â€œFolly, darling!”
    â€œDidn’t you know I was a witch? You can keep beautifully dry on a broomstick. Go to bed, darling. You can. It’s quite safe—I never go for more than one broomstick ride at a time. And I really like moonlight best—it’s more amusing.”
    She put her arm round Eleanor, hugged her, pushed her out of the door, and locked it in her very face.
    Eleanor heard a smothered laugh:
    â€œGood-night, Mrs. Grundy.”
    The light in Folly’s room went out with a click.

CHAPTER XIV
    Next day being Saturday, Tommy Wingate came down for the week-end. Miss Folly March seemed to approve of him; she certainly flirted with him to an extent that made Betty look down her nose, and provided a good deal of entertainment for the domestic staff. Tommy played golf with her, sang with her, and danced with her. But Folly was shrewdly aware of the fact that Eleanor had only to beckon him with a glance.
    When she did, Tommy’s gratitude was patent. He did not flirt with Eleanor; he merely adored. He had never hidden, or desired to hide, his devotion.
    On Sunday evening he came down early, and found Eleanor early too. She was standing by the fire, dropping fir-cones on to it and watching them blaze. She wore a white embroidered shawl of China crêpe over her black velvet dress; the long white fringes fell almost to her feet. She turned to him, half laughing, as he came in.
    â€œDon’t they smell good? I love the fat green ones. Oh, Tommy! Isn’t it good to be home again?”
    â€œIt’s good to be anywhere that you are,” said Tommy, looking at her through his absurd shining eyeglass. He thought her the most beautiful woman in the world, and the most gracious.
    â€œThank you, Tommy. It’s been ever so nice to see you.”
    Tommy leaned against the mantelpiece, one hand on the marble edge.
    â€œYou’ll see lots of me. Are you going to be in town?”
    â€œFor a bit.”
    â€œI can get up for week-ends. You’ll let me come and see you?” His jolly eyes were suddenly wistful like the eyes of a dog who begs for what he knows he must not have.
    Eleanor looked back at him sweetly and kindly.
    â€œI shall love it,” she said. Then she put her hand on his for a moment. “Nice Tommy! But, Tommy, dear, don’t be too nice to me.”
    â€œWhy not?” said Tommy stoutly.
    She just shook her head without speaking.
    â€œI know it’s no good now,” he said without looking at her. “But some day—”
    Eleanor looked down into the fire. There were tears in her eyes.
    â€œOh, Tommy, that’s all over.”
    Tommy