"We can't keep this
up," he declared, and moved into the eddying throng, the intermingling
ceaseless conversations. Almost at once Peyton Morris disappeared, and
Lee found Fanny at his shoulder. Neither of them fox-hunted, although
they hacked a great deal over the country roads and fields, and they
had ridden to the Spencers' that morning. Fanny wore dark brown and a
flattened hunting derby which, with her hair in a short braid tied by a
stiff black ribbon, was particularly becoming. She was, he told
himself, with her face positively animated, sparkling, from talk,
unusually attractive. Fanny was like that--at times she was singularly
engaging.
"What did he say?" she demanded, nodding in the direction in which
Peyton had disappeared. "I have avoided him all morning."
"An uncommon lot for Peyton," Lee acknowledged. "I almost think he has
been jarred out of his self-complacency. But, on the whole, that is not
possible. It's temporary with him. At one time I thought--in the
language of youth--he was going to crown me."
"The little beast!" she exclaimed viciously. "If he had I'd have made
him sorry. I saw Claire a few minutes ago, and she asked me to tell
you, if she missed you, that she had something for you to see. Wasn't
it strange that she said nothing to me about it? I should think, in her
scrape, she'd rather turn to a woman than to a man.
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