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Updated: May 13, 2025
How scornfully she had flashed at Carl! Diane quivered and lay very still, torn by the bitter irony of it. And the Indian mother! Carl had known and Ronador. She had caught a startled look in the eyes of each at the Sherrill fête.
Said Mrs. Sherrill, raising her voice: "Victor here's Miss Hastings come to see you." Then to Jane: "Excuse me, please. I don't dare leave that kitchen long." She departed. Jane waited while Victor, his pencil reluctantly slackening and his glance lingeringly rising from the paper, came back to sense of his surroundings. He stared at her blankly, then colored a little.
"Where," demanded Diane indignantly, "did you come from anyway?" "If you hadn't been so ambitious," Philip assured her with mild resentment, "you'd have seen me at breakfast. I arrived at Sherrill's last night. As it is, I've been sitting here an hour or so watching you swap wildwood yarns with the aborigine yonder. And Ann Sherrill sent me after you in Dick's speediest car. Ho, uncle!"
Warm and deliciously fragrant, it swept the stiff wet Bermuda grass upon the lawn of the Sherrill villa at Palm Beach, rustled the crimson hedge of hibiscus, caught the subtle perfume of jasmine and oleander and swept on to a purple-flowered vine on the white walls of the villa, a fuller, richer thing for the ghost-scent of countless flowers.
"Dick Sherrill phoned," said his aunt plaintively. "I thought you'd gone. He wanted you to come up and play bridge. Oh, Carl, I I do wish you wouldn't motor about in a thunder shower. I once knew a man such a nice, quiet fellow too and very domestic in his habits but he would ramble about and the lightning tore his collar off and printed a picture of a tree on his spine. Think of that!"
Firelight faintly haloed Keela's face and brought mad memories of the soft light of the Venetian lamp at the Sherrill fete. He noted the pure, delicate regularity of feature, the delicate, vivid skin it was paler than Diane's and flaming through his brain went the dangerous reflection that conquest lay now perhaps in the very hollow of his hand. Desire had driven him on to things unspeakable.
Back from his flight over the hills with Sherrill, Philip had bathed and shaved, whistling thoughtfully to himself. Now as he descended the steep Sherrill lane to the valley, ravine and hollow were already dark with twilight. From the rustling trees arching the lane overhead came the occasional sleepy chirp and flutter of a bird. Off somewhere in the gathering dusk a lonely owl hooted eerily.
Madame Sherrill, who carries on the farm since the death of her husband, is a woman of strong and liberal mind, who informed us that she got small comfort in the churches in the neighborhood, and gave us, in fact, a discouraging account of the unvital piety of the region.
Mic-co had been summoned away by an Indian servant. A soft light gleamed in the corner of the court in a shower of vines. Its light was a little like the soft rays of the Venetian lamp that had shone in the Sherrill garden, but Carl ruthlessly put the memory aside. It had grown once into a devouring flame of evil portent. It must not do so again.
For days he had taken wild chances that horrified Sherrill inexpressibly; drinking clear whiskey in the burning white tropical sunlight, tramping off into trackless wilds without a guide, conducting himself, as Sherrill aggrievedly put it, with the general irrationality of a drunken madman. "The climate or a moccasin will get you yet!" exclaimed Sherrill heatedly. "And it will serve you right.
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