Or a girl would come to visit, and by the same
system of appropriation would come back later, permanently. Always
the same faces, the same small talk. Orchids or violets at
luncheons, white or rose or blue or yellow frocks at dinners and
dances. Golf at the country club. Travel, in the Cardew private
car, cut off from fellow travelers who might prove interesting.
Winter at Palm Beach, and a bit of a thrill at seeing moving picture
stars and theatrical celebrities playing on the sand. One never
had a chance to meet them.
And, in quiet intervals, this still house, and grandfather shut
away in his upstairs room, but holding the threads of all their
lives as a spider clutches the diverging filaments of its web.
"Get in on this, Lily," said a clear young voice. "We're talking
about the most interesting men we met in our war work. You ought
to have known a lot of them."
"I knew a lot of men. They were not so very interesting. There
was a little nurse--"
"Men, Lily dear."
"There was one awfully nice boy. He wasn't a soldier, but he was
very kind to the men. They adored him."
"Did he fall in love with your?"
"Not a particle."
"Why wasn't he a soldier?"
"He is a little bit lame.
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