But as the butler had preceded her with whiskey and soda and ice, Mrs.
Abbott might already have achieved the mahogany tints of her mother and she
would have been regarded as enthusiastically by two hot and dusty men.
"Of course you will stay to luncheon," she said as naturally as she had
said it these many years, and as two hospitable generations had said it on
that verandah before her. She turned to young Gathbroke with a smile, for
Mrs. Hunter, who was in her confidence, had detained her for a moment with
a few sharp incisive words. "I have a very bored little sister, who will be
glad to sit next to a young man once more."
And although Gathbroke almost frowned at this fresh reminder of the callow
years of the girl whose sheer loveliness had haunted his imagination,
he went off with a not disagreeable titillation of the nerves, at Mrs.
Abbott's suggestion, to find her in the park and bring her back to luncheon
in half an hour.
CHAPTER XIII
I
He was light of step and made no sound on the heavy turf; he saw her
several minutes before she was aware of his presence and stood staring at
her, feeling much as he had done during the progress of the earthquake.
She was standing under one of the great oaks whose lower limbs had been
trimmed so evenly some seven feet above the ground that they made a compact
symmetrical roof above the dark head of the girl, who, being alone, had
abandoned the limp curve of fashion and was standing very erect, drawn up
to her full five feet seven.
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