He had
promised Fanny not to stay long, and, if he were coming home, she never
went to sleep until he was in the house. Lee wasn't drunk, but then, he
recognized, neither was he sober. Why should he be the latter? he
demanded seriously of himself. His glass was empty, the champagne was
all gone. Mrs. Gilbert Bromhead was perceptibly leaning on Christian
Wager, her skill blurred; Evadore's face was damply pallid, her mouth
slack; she left the table, the room, hurried and unsteady, evidently
about to repeat the thickness of the act that had marred her enjoyment
of the night club; Claire was openly contemptuous of them all.
Outside, it had grown much colder, the ruts in the road were frozen,
treacherous, but Lee Randon drove his car with a feeling of inattentive
mastery. He saw some stars, an arc light, black patches of ice; and, as
he increased his speed, he sang to an emphatic lifted hand of a being
in the South Seas who wore leaves, plenty of leaves ... But none of the
silly songs now could compare with--with the bully that, on the levees,
he was going to cut down. However, in his house, he grew quiet. "Lee,"
his wife called sleepily from their room, "you are so late, dear. I
waited the longest while for some of the addresses for our Christmas
cards. You must remember to give them to me tomorrow."
Her voice, heavy with sleep and contentment and love, fell upon his
hearing like the sound of a pure accusing bell.
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