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CHAPTER

IV

Vacrant airs from the window of the small library playfully stirred the bright tendrils on Constance Fentriss’s neck. The girl was a picture of unconscious grace and delight as she sat, with her great, heavy-lashed eyes fixed in speculation, her curving lips a little drawn down, her gracious, girlish figure relaxed in the deep chair. Across the room Mary Delia was skimming hopefully the pages of Town Topics for scandals about people she knew. She lifted her head and asked carelessly: “What doing, Con?” “Figuring out a letter.” “Who to?” (Mary Delia’s higher education, inclusive of “correct” English, had cost something more than ten thousand dollars.) “A certain party.” This was formula, current in their set and deemed to possess a mildly satiric flavour. “Oh, verra well!” (Meaning “Don’t tell if you don’t want to.”’) “Tt?s to Warren Graves, if you want to know.” “Your Princeton paragon? Have you got something

going there?” ~ “I’m going to give him hell.” “What for? I thought he was one of your best bets.” “For acting like a Mick Saturday night.” “What did he pull? <A pickle?” “A petting party with Pat.” “No! Did he?” Dee cast aside the professional organ of scandal in favour of a more immediate interest. ~‘Hor, do you know?” 39

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