It was all as
dreary, as sodden, as possible. Eastlake, appearing beyond a shoulder
of bare woods, showed a monotonous scattering of wet black roofs, raw
brick chimneys, at the end of a long paved highway glistening with
steel tracks.
Lee Randon was weary, depressed: nothing in his life, in any existence,
offered the least recompense for the misfortune of having been born. He
left his car at the entrance of his dwelling; Christopher, the
gardener, came sloshing over the sod to take it into the garage; and,
within, he found the dinner-table set for three. "It's Claire," his
wife informed him; "she called up not half an hour ago to ask if she
could come. Peyton was away over night, she said, and she wanted to see
us." He went on up to his room, inattentive even to Claire's possible
troubles.
He dressed slowly, automatically, and descended to the fire-lit space
that held Cytherea in her mocking, her becoming, aloofness. In the
brightly illuminated room beyond the hall Helena and Gregory were
playing parchesi--Gregory firmly grasped the cup from which he intently
rolled the dice; Helena shook the fair hair from her eyes and, it
immediately developed, moved a pink marker farther than proper.
"You only got seven!" Gregory exclaimed; "and you took it nine right on
that safety."
"What if I did?" she returned undisturbed. "I guess a girl can make a
mistake without having somebody yell at her.
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