XXVII
A QUESTION
Edith Cortlandt did not retire immediately upon her return from
the ball. Her anger at Anthony's behavior kept her wakeful, and
the night had turned off so dead and humid that sleep was in any
case a doubtful possibility. It was the lifeless period between
seasons when the trades had died out, or, at best, veered about
bafflingly, too faint to offer relief. The cooling rains had not
set in as yet, and a great blanket of heat wrapped the city in its
smothering folds. The air was still and tainted, like that of a
sick-room. Through Mrs. Cortlandt's open windows came hardly a
sound; even from the sea below rose only a faint hissing, as if
the rocks at the water's edge were superheated. Earlier in the
evening the temperature had been bearable, but now it had reached
an intensity to strain tired nerves to the snapping-point. It was
the sort of night in which ailing children die and strong minds
feel the burden of living. No relief was to be had, and the
slightest physical effort was a misery.
She was still sitting there at a late hour when she heard the
outside door close and Cortlandt's footsteps mounting the stairs.
She was glad he had his own room and never entered hers at such an
hour, for even to talk with him in her present state of mind and
body would have been more than she could bear.
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