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Updated: June 9, 2025
This made Lee restive, and, patting her hand, he left to dance with Alice Lucian. "When this is over," she informed him, "we'll get Anette and George, and go out to my car. There is a Thermos bottle of cocktails hidden under the seat." The girl who had sat at Lee's right was dancing with a tall fair-haired boy in a corner.
She wasn't, certainly, gay in the sense most familiar to him Anette, in the same circumstances, would have radiated a bubbling sensual pleasure, indulged in a surface impropriety; any girl around them would have given more than Mrs. Grove; everything, probably. But he preferred the penetrating judgments, the superior mental freedom, of his companion.
After he had changed his shoes and secured the latticed steel door of his locker he went up to the main room of the clubhouse, where, on the long divan before the open fire, he found Peyton Morris lounging with Anette Sherwin by a low tea table.
Lee found himself between Bemis Fox, a younger girl familiar enough at the dances but whose presence had only just been recognized, and Mrs. Craddock, in Eastlake for the winter. Anette was across the board, and her lips formed the query, "The first dance?" Lee Randon nodded; he was measurably fond of her; he usually enjoyed a party at which he found Anette.
He had met her a number of years ago, in Eastlake, but he retained no clear impression of her; and, admitting that he hadn't gone to see her in a picture, wondered aloud at her sudden fame. Peyton Morris glanced at him, frowning; he seemed at the point of vigorous speech, then said nothing. "Mina is lovely now, Lee," Anette spoke in his place; "you will realize that at once.
She's like a a wistful April moon, or corn silk." "I like black hair," Randon asserted. "That's amusing, when you think Fanny's is quite brown," Anette replied. "Whom have you been meeting with black hair? There's none I can remember in Eastlake." "There isn't anybody in particular," Lee reassured her; "it is just an idea of mine."
Lee, with all his vitality, drew away from a conception, a figure, with the cold immobility of death. After all, he reassured himself, he had never essentially lied to Fanny; he had merely suppressed some unnecessary details in order to make their existence smoother. The welcome collapse of his small affair with Anette proved the wisdom of avoiding the exaggeration and difficulty of explanations.
Together, slowly, deliberately, they would move away from the known, the commonplace, the bound, into the unknown dark gardens and white marble and the murmur of an ultramarine sea. He was rudely disturbed by the entrance of Anette and Peyton Morris. "We're so sorry," Anette said in an exaggerated air of apology; "come on away, Peyton." But the latter told Lee that Fanny was looking for him.
Anette was lost, forgotten. If the chill air could only take the fever, the desire, out of his mind and blood! He wished that he might be absorbed into the night, the storm, become one with its anonymous force, one with the trees he heard laboring on their trunks.
Lee didn't for a second want a wife like Anette. His admiration for Fanny was, fundamentally, enormous. He was glad that there was nothing hidden in his life which could seriously disturb her; nothing, that was, irrevocable. Which had he been wise or fortunate, or only trivial? Perhaps, everything considered, merely fortunate; and he wondered how she would have met an infidelity of his?
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