A month ago he would have commanded and developed an
enticing situation; but now, for Lee Randon, it was without
possibilities, hardly more than perfunctory. A shade of vexation
invaded her bearing, and she moved a significant infinitesimal fraction
away from him. Then she discovered a wind blowing down the stairs. "I
have to take such good care of myself," she told Lee, preparing to
descend. "It is because I am so delicate--I can get upset at nothing.
Here you are all so strong; you have an advantage over me. Gilbert,
dear," she called from the hall, her voice musical with tender
reproach, "I can't see how you love me, you stay away so far."
* * * * *
"What did the little ass say to you?" Claire asked. Lee was standing
with her by the piano, and the others were around the fireplace in the
farther spaciousness. "Nothing much," he replied. "You mean that she
never stopped. I'll admit she's skillful; but she needn't think I'm a
fool. But you will never guess what I want to tell you. My dear Lee,
that Mrs. Grove wrote me a letter. I have it here in my dress, for you
to read. It's a scream." He took the sheet of note paper: it was grey
with an address on East Sixty-sixth Street embossed in pale vermilion,
and had an indefinable scent. The writing was decisive:
"MY DEAR MRS. MORRIS,
"It is so difficult for me to express my disturbance at what Mina Raff
has just told me, that I am asking to see you here, at my house in New
York.
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