The Seventeen Widows of Sans Souci

Chapter 1

The woman in the taxi could see a brown metal plate set importantly in a stucco wall.

[ SANS SOUCI ]

The driver said cheerfully, in the tone of equal to equal, I guess this is it. He got out, banging his door.

She hunched along the slippery seat toward the curb side and still she could see no more than the head-high wall that ran severely, for all its smothering vine, some ninety feet along the sidewalk.

The driver opened her door. She put her foot out and it occurred to her that this foot, in its brown pump with medium-high heel, was still handsome. This carcass, she thought. The nerves of this carcass still vibrated to the clack and beat of the train. The face of this carcass was stiff with whatever stiffening agent it is that emanates from a Pullman car. But the carcass was sound. It was the heart, the nervous system or the soul, some inner part, that languished and had no energy to leave the cab. The carcass moved, however, and the sunlight, as if it had weight, thudded down upon her brown woolen shoulders.

Now she was able to see a utilitarian black-and-white sign hanging on an iron stand.

SANS SOUCI

FURN. HSKPG APTS.

Sgle . . . . . . . .Dble

Maid Service

ELEVATOR

Monthly Rates

She took a few steps to the corner.

Ah!

The very corner was spanned on a diagonal by a stucco arch of Spanish motif which pierced the wall. She could see through it into the—courtyard, garden, she struggled for the word—patio, and to the outline of the building, a two-story L-shaped affair, in the same yellowish stucco as the wall, that occupied the inner two sides of this square patch of ground. Ah, it was like the picture postal card!

Nona Henry discounted the differences without disillusion. The postal card had shown the structure longer, lower, brighter, newer. The postal card had exaggerated the flowers. The postal card had given an impression of a building sprawling in free space.

Actually, Sans Souci stood on a Pasadena street corner, where the streets were lined with old wooden houses, some standing back, dingy and decayed, some built forward with flat fronts that had become odd shops. There was a gas station, catercorner behind her. There was a mortuary, directly across. Still, Sans Souci had a patio garden, walled on two sides. And all Americans know that advertisements make everything look longer, lower, brighter, and newer than anything really is.

As advertised, beyond the arch a very wide, paved walk led diagonally across the patio to the inner angle of the L. At about its center it widened still more to a paved oval, and on the left side of this oval a raised fountain did exist. (It did not play, as it had played on the postal card. Perhaps this was not its season.) Upon the oval too, out of the way of foot traffic, there were indeed garden chairs and small metal tables, even if the chairs were not spanking new. The remainder of the square really was a garden, and flowers did bloom here in late November … a high tree with red in it, some low purple, some cerise. And the sun, as advertised, shone down. Just now, it slanted over the north and west wing and struck upon the fountain side of the oval, illuminating two female figures seated on a wooden bench near the fountain. To Nona Henry the walled garden, lush with unfamiliar plants, seemed, in November, romantic, exotic—in fact, charming.

The taxi driver had pulled out her luggage—the huge wardrobe suitcase, the smaller suitcase, the hatbox. Nona herself carried the little train case, together with her handbag.

She braced her body, drawing on, without premeditation, the role of the traveler, the arriving one, from afar. A woman of poised decision who had chosen to winter in Southern California. It seemed necessary to make this impression upon those two women beside the fountain and upon anyone who might be looking down into the patio from the windows of Sans Souci.

If a part of Nona Henry saw that this was somewhat silly, nevertheless as she followed the driver who lurched off along the walk with her possessions, she held in her middle and placed her feet with precision.

The elder of the two women sitting there in the sun, a small slight person with a head of white hair, made a genteel inclination of that head in Nona’s direction. It reminded Nona of her mother’s bow; it was almost Victorian. The younger woman looked up with a dreamy smile. Nona let herself nod, with ladylike discretion.

Before the heavy glass door which was set, not catercorner but evenly in the façade of the eastward wing of Sans Souci, the driver was standing, laden and baffled. Nona Henry with a pretty exclamation reached to help him with the door, but he had freed one hand by now, and they managed it awkwardly between them. It was as if she and the driver and the baggage tumbled through in a tangle.

The lobby of Sans Souci, she perceived, was reassuringly neat and elegant. A big mirror hung on the wall to her left. Under it a low-backed green couch, flanked by pinkish chairs, sat behind a coffee table upon which a low bouquet was exactly centered. Straight ahead there was another array of chairs and small tables standing in line. Lamps were lit here, shedding a warm and generous light. The carpet was agreeably squishy.

The office—a counter of dark wood, a lattice of mailboxes, a switchboard—was to her right. The man in it was pink-skinned, smooth-faced, and talking on the telephone. She could not call across the lobby to ask him whether he knew who Nona Henry was. (This is Sans Souci. This is the place, she told herself, feeling a sudden giddiness.) She paid the driver and tipped him generously, in a nervous flurry. Then she left the heap of her things and advanced on the squishy carpet. The man put down the phone and tipped his head inquiringly. I am Mrs. Henry? Her voice that had intended to sound poised and confident bleated off into a question mark. You have my check? I airmailed it … She was nervous.

(Because she was cut off. The driver, linked to the train that was linked to the past, had gone. She stood alone in space and time and what if this man had kept no place for her? Then was she free! It made her dizzy.)

Mrs. Valentine Henry, the man said in a smooth reassuring voice. Oh yes. We have been expecting you. Did you have a pleasant train trip, Mrs. Henry?

Oh, very nice. She felt herself smirk, in relief (and disappointment).

All the way from New York, he said admiringly. Excuse me, ma’am? He picked up the phone. Rose, could you please? He broke the connection, made another. Kelly? He spoke more curtly. Luggage here.

Then he reached for a key somewhere behind him, opened a flap in the counter, and came forth. The houseman will bring your bags, Mrs. Henry, he said. I’ll take you myself. 208. He flipped the key. Is this your first visit to Southern California?

As a matter of fact, it is, she said almost gaily. (She wanted to tell him everything. I am a woman from a place where I was known. But things have happened to me.…) She did not, of course, say anything of the kind.

I am Morgan Lake, he said.

Oh, yes, Mr. Lake. He had signed the letter, she realized.

The elevator is this way. He bowed her to the right. Nona Henry noticed, without disillusion, that the squishiness of the carpet disappeared as soon as they had passed the corner of the lobby wall. The carpet here was hard and smooth. The light lessened. Or perhaps her eyes were sun-dazzled. The elevator was only ten steps from the lobby, just beyond a flight of stairs. It was a very small self-service type. Dark within. Nothing brisk about it. It ran with a grudge up the one story.

I suppose one could walk up? she asked.

Oh yes, of course, ma’am. Some of our older people, however, dislike the stairs. He smiled. Not many buildings have an elevator, in this area. Especially two-story buildings. (She sensed the salesman.)

I suppose that’s true, she said.

They stood close in this moving enclosure. But he was a clean-smelling man, deferential, smooth, and kind.

He opened the door to the upper corridor. They came out almost exactly at the angle. Very dim. She had a sense of being buried away from all light and all air. Many people had cooked many things in Sans Souci.

Feet were thudding somewhere, quick feet, young feet.

Mr. Lake moved quickly and called around the corner. Kelly? 208, please.

Nona Henry saw that she was to follow him up the north wing. So she turned the corner, stretching her eyes in the dimness, holding her breath against the cookery smells. She could see daylight coming through a kind of French door at the far end of the wing. There must be a fire escape. She saw the silhouette of a man, encumbered with her luggage, who had come running up the flight of stairs and was now moving swiftly before them as if his burdens weighed nothing to him.

A door near the corner burst open behind her. Light poured through, danced past her feet. Dust seemed to puff up from the worn path in the faded carpet.

Pick me up about seven thirty, said some woman in a hearty husky voice. Might as well get going early. O.K.?

I’ll wear my rabbit, said another female voice in shrill cheer. And don’t you laugh! The speaker herself was laughing, the humorless laugh of good will.

Listen, who’s laughing? said the husky one. My mink, you know …

Then the voices ceased abruptly. Nona knew she had been noticed. She did not look behind. She placed her feet carefully. Yet the dark stuffy corridor was not quite so dismaying. Life, of course, was lived on the other side of the walls.

Morgan Lake led her to the last door on the right. He used the key. The man waiting with her bags was a Negro with a young smooth face atop a slim body that moved with an energy so abundant that it was more like rhythm, more like grace. The door went inward, and Nona stepped over the sill. Her eye ran into a half-wall, shoulder high. She turned right, the way that was open. She stood still.

Morgan Lake told Kelly Shane to put the bags in the bedroom. He had an eye on the motionless figure of the new tenant. A neat little body. Pretty feet. Pretty hair. Crinkling eyes. A woman who had been a very pretty girl. But one never knew quite how it would go, with the ones who had rented sight unseen. It depended, he supposed, on what they were used to. Some were pleased. This one was not going to be pleased. But he was braced for that.

She was standing just within the living room, the airless dim drab place that still smelled faintly of the paint that had been slapped on the kitchen. He moved around her and reached through the yellow-white glass curtains to open one of the windows that overlooked the patio.

The dinette and kitchen are this way, Mrs. Henry, he said unctuously.

She obeyed his escorting gestures. She came through the dinette, which was no more than a passageway the other side of the half-wall. She barely glanced at the apple-green table drawn bare to the window here, and the two hard apple-green chairs. She peered over the low dividing dish cupboards into the mean little kitchen, where the new cream-colored paint looked lumpy and sticky, plastered as it had been over many ancient layers. She didn’t listen to his enumeration of the equipment—stove (four blackened burners and a crooked oven door), icebox (built-in and therefore small and old and unreplaced too long), sink (and the old-fashioned tiny white tiles on the small drainboard that were uneven from sheer age). There is an incinerator in the hall, he told her.

But she turned away. Isn’t it very dim? she said in a dispirited voice.

Morgan Lake pulled out some long-practiced answers. At this time of day, he said gently, "yes. You are on the northeast here. Of course, in the mornings, you will have all the sun."

I see. Her small teeth came over her lip.

Most people prefer, he said, "to be able to overlook the patio. It is pleasant."

Yes.

He waited. He wondered about women. Why didn’t they realize, the ones who had made a bargain from a distance, that they were stuck with it, for a month at least? A man would, he thought. A man would either raise complete hell, and defy lawsuits—anything to get out of it—or else he would shrug and say, I guess I’m stuck with it, but I’ll be looking around. Women … She said with a frown, Have you any other vacancy?

I don’t have another double at the moment, he said regretfully. The only actual vacancy in the building is a one-room apartment on the first floor. 109. It does face the west. Would you like to see it, Mrs. Henry?

One room? she said dubiously.

The bed pulls down. His air apologized.

Oh.

I ought to say that you might find the western sun a bit uncomfortable, he murmured, whereas here, of course, your bedroom has two exposures. On the corner. She must value a corner, his tone implied. She must know that there were only so many corners. Gently he shepherded her back to the pseudo foyer and through the narrow door to the left of it.

The bedroom, he thought, was not so bad really. The twin beds were neatly spread in pink. The furniture was painted ivory. The two windows, one north, one east, gave a steady light. A quiet light.

This is all right, she murmured.

He opened the door to the bathroom. It was, as he well knew, in a plumbing block, exactly parallel with the kitchen, and therefore inside. He heard her breath snuffing in. "No window?"

All of our baths are like this, he told her, keeping his voice complacent. There are some advantages.

I’ve seen them, she said in that spiritless tone, in hotels in the city … She had been animated, at first, down in the lobby.

Oh, there is plenty of ventilation, of course, he said smoothly. "And there is perfect privacy." She was staring in at the old-fashioned tiny hexagonal tiles that lay lumpy on the floor.

I will be glad to show you the apartment downstairs, Mrs. Henry, he said gently. However, it does need redecorating, and so far … Painters are very difficult, I’m afraid. It isn’t ready at the moment.

I see, she said. She turned—blindly, he knew.

He knew that Kelly was still standing in the foyer, waiting for his tip. As the woman moved, he followed and signaled Kelly with his hand, and Kelly faded. Morgan Lake himself waited for her capitulation. He knew it would come. He waited for what he had seen so often. For the female eye to begin to accommodate. For the little ideas. A picture here, she would think. A personal trinket there. Change the lamp shades. (So often they wanted to change the lamp shades.) Or she would ask for another color in a chair. Woman were resilient, he thought. They made over a place, yanking at it with their imaginations, and having done so they felt as if they had made a home. A few token material changes. A major adjustment in the mind. After this, they could put up with a good deal.

This one surprised him.

He thought he had recognized her. On the young side as widows went, but a widow, of course. And not yet too used to going it alone. Rather flustered at being far from her family or whatever. Overacting the sophisticated traveler. Determined, now, to be shrewd. But on the whole, a lively sensible little woman who would accommodate after the usual pattern.

Nona Henry said bitterly, This is exactly right. It suits me.

His surprise kept him silent for half a moment but then he began to talk, for one talked past such a surprise. You will find, he said soothingly, that this location is very convenient. So near the shops and theatres. On level ground, pleasant for walking. We are rather proud of our patio, too. Now, he said to her bitterly passive face, is there anything more I can do, Mrs. Henry? I can perhaps direct you to a market? There is a very fine market a block to the north of us. Open in the evenings.

Is there a restaurant? she said dully.

"Oh yes, quite near. Small, but rather nice, I understand. About a block and a half to the east, the opposite of the street. Hunt’s is the name. It’s not expensive of course."

He watched to see if his reverse emphasis would cheer her up. He had learned to say It’s not expensive, of course, as if he believed that the tenant naturally desired and preferred an expensive place. He never said that a place was reasonable. No. He had often been amused to see how they reacted with a reassuring smile, and told him, in words or otherwise, that, in spite of their normal fastidious ways, they were not at all too proud to settle this once for the convenience.

Nona Henry, however, said thank you in a tight voice. Her two hands lifted. Her handbag was still in them, and this was as if she had not yet let her anchor down. He saw, by her face, that if he did not leave at once, she might begin to weep in his presence. So he left her.

He rode down in the elevator. (The doctor had forbidden him the stairs.) He felt sad. His wife, Rose Lake, was substituting for him behind the counter.

Thanks, hon, he said to her. That was 208, Mrs. Henry, who came in.

"What’s she like?" said Rose grumpily. She was willowy and tall. Her dark hair was massed upon her neck in a great knot. She turned to him her brooding, unhappy, dark eyes.

Oh, late forties—or fifties, he said. All right. There were some things, he had learned, he could not say to Rose. He could not now say, This one puzzles me. She’s in pieces! Rose would only stare. And he could be wrong. He had no confidence in his own insights.

Rose said now contemptuously, Can she pay her rent? That’s the point, isn’t it?

I would think she could, he answered smoothly.

Felice Paull wants her kitchen painted, said Rose with a moue.

Yes, I know, he groaned, trying to catch her eye with a companionable glance of despair.

I told her, said Rose haughtily, "that I never had anything to do with these things."

He had come through the flap and stood beside her in the cramped space. I’ll deal with her, he said gently. Thanks, hon. He knew that his unshakable courtesy sometimes maddened her. So he asked quickly, to divert her mind, Winnie’s home, is she?

She’s washing her hair, said Rose sulkily. By the way, Mrs. Rogan is talking long-distance. She gestured at the switchboard.

Thanks.

"Por nada," said Rose, unpleasantly.

Morgan Lake let his haunches down upon the stool with a small gusty sigh.

Rose Lake went through the nearby door of her own apartment and immediately to the open door of the bathroom where Winifred Lake stood pinning up her dark wet hair.

Did you get all the soap out? her mother asked suspiciously. I could have rinsed it for you.

I think I got it out, Mom, said Winnie pleasantly.

Rose came in and sat on the rim of the bathtub. Winifred worked away, with her young arms high, the young bosom lifted. The dark eyes, tilted a trifle saucily in her creamy face, communicated with themselves in the glass.

What are you doing tonight, sweetheart? Rose asked. Much homework?

Oh, not much at all, said Winifred, whisking a tiny wet strand around and around in her fingertips and then reaching for a clip. She actually had three chapters of pretty tough reading to do and she ought to work on her theme. But she did not tell her mother so. No sense to that. If her mother thought she had a lot of homework, her mother would nag and nag. And Winnie wouldn’t even get it done. There was this, too. If Len should call and if Winnie needed to ask if she could go to the early show, she’d never get out. So Winifred lied to her mother, with long ease. Just in case.

I’m going to make chicken à la king for dinner, her mother said. You like that, don’t you, love?

Ooooh, goooody! said Winifred.

Her mother’s face changed and looked satisfied. Well, Rose said. Well, I suppose I could fuss around in the kitchen.

She touched Winnie’s neck with cold fingers. She left her.

Winnie smiled to her image. She didn’t give an absolute damn whether they had chicken à la king or whatever. It didn’t matter. She began to think about what did matter. She knew what signified. Winifred Lake, age seventeen, knew the secret of life. But she kept it to herself. She would not tell her mother. Winnie wouldn’t have put it in the proverbial form but she knew very well that there was no use casting pearls before swine. Or the secret of life before a woman whose life was over.

Rose Lake went into her living room and saw by the clock that there was nothing to do in the kitchen yet. She looked about her, restlessly, but the room, all done in maple and colonial, windowed to the south upon the narrow strip of lawn, the wall, the tree, was in perfect order. She sat down on the yellow-and-brown love seat and picked up a House Beautiful. Her mind wasn’t on it. Her mind was searching for something Winnie ought to have. The time was coming when Winnie ought to have a car, she thought daringly. Morgan must manage somehow. Her expression settled into pleasurable yearning.

Upstairs, Nona Henry unclenched her hands. She’d had self-pity. She had wallowed in it, on that train. One more wave of woe to meet; it would subside. She could make it subside. A bulldog streak knew how to build up phrases against the woe. I must hang up my dresses. I must bathe, change. I must find that restaurant and dine. I must go to the market.

At the same time, a separate part of her—neither the word-forming part nor the part that was drowning in sorrow’s tide, but some other Nona that had connection with the feet and the arms—this wanted to kick out in a jig. This wanted to do something crazy. This would have thrown her purse, money, identification cards and all, up to the ceiling and let it crash where it would. She tightened her will to beat away the devil in the heart—this insane loose joyful feeling that was traitor to all the rest. I must make a list, brain said. "Breakfast things, at least. Tomorrow, I must find a bank. So much to do."

Chapter 2

Felice Paull, in all her black-clad mass, stood at the office counter; her large nearsighted brown eyes were moistly shining.

I will speak to the owner, Morgan Lake was saying. Of course. He had embanked himself behind an almost supernatural courtesy.

It’s a disgrace, she insisted in her deep voice. Her bushy brows were drawn fiercely horizontal. "I would like to speak to the owner personally."

I’m afraid that’s imposs—

"I want to show him my kitchen."

I am here, said Morgan Lake, to take these things under advisement.

Where can I find the owner?

Morgan smiled faintly.

I can write him a letter, I suppose? she said sarcastically.

Certainly, Mrs. Paull, he replied, most courteously. I will see that a letter reaches him. He kept his voice cooing-smooth, himself detached. He had fought this battle with Felice Paull before. Neither she, nor any other tenant, knew what person or persons owned Sans Souci. There was a corporate name, abstract, unrevealing.

I have written a dozen letters, she boomed. "I don’t believe they are read. I think the owner is liable." Felice Paull was always talking about law and liability, as if she assumed that the law had been designed to extract anything she wanted from all the rest of the world. Yet for all the mass of the body, the beetling of the brows, the overbearing boom of her voice, her cow-eyes continued—somewhat to Morgan Lake’s dismay—to look hurt.

So Morgan Lake detached himself and saw and heard from afar. The big woman insisting, demanding … and yet pleading. He refusing, but so carefully as to sound almost as if he were saying Yes instead of No. She thought he had the power to give her what she wanted. He knew he had no such power. He was a buffer, and he must buff, but so gracefully that he offended no one. It was a miserable position. The only way he could endure it was to detach himself and view the whole thing from afar.

Perhaps so, he murmured now, agreeably, but it is a question of time— Then he saw his deliverance coming.

It wiggled through the glass door, in the shape of Ida Milbank, who spied Felice, gave out a hoot of greeting, and scurried toward them. She was, he noticed with resigned interest, carrying a package.

Felice, are you busy? Come on up. I want to show Agnes … She was a little woman in her middle sixties, with almost no chin, a prominent but somewhat shapeless nose, and frizzy gray hair. Her close-set pink-rimmed eyes showed watery blue behind her glasses. Her face fell in soft folds that seemed to have long left the bone. I happened to be in Bullocks’ …

What now? said Felice Paull gloomily, turning her dour brows upon her friend. "How did you get into Bullocks’ alone?"

Ah, Felice, wait till you see! Only nine ninety-eight.

Like a fuzzy little tugboat, Ida Milbank seemed to be herding the steamship mass of Felice Paull so that it turned to move majestically away.

Morgan Lake let his rear sink back upon his stool, grateful for present deliverance.

The little elevator groaned them upward and Ida Milbank tapped upon the first door to the east of it.

Come in, said Agnes Vaughn.

Agnes Vaughn inhabited this one-room apartment directly over the entrance to Sans Souci. She was sitting in her favorite chair which was placed so that she occupied the very angle of the building. Almost nothing could happen in the big patio below without being observed by Agnes Vaughn. She sat over the entrance like a nerve cell, a receptor.

The room was large, serving as it did for bedroom and sitting room. The pull-down bed was permanently pulled down here. Agnes Vaughn claimed it was beyond her strength to push it up neatly into its alcove where it could be hidden by double doors. So it was never hidden, but stood messily in the middle of everything. Clutter, however, was natural and pleasant to Agnes Vaughn.

She had a pug-dog face, bristling with chin hairs, and a brown-toothed grin. Her eyes were small and sly. She was seventy-four years old but her hair had not altogether turned white. She said cheerfully, Greetings, greetings. You mailed your letters, Felice, eh? This was to show Felice that she had not left the building and returned without Agnes having known all about it. What have you got there, Ida? Oh, shame …

Now, wait till you see! Ida began to tear paper.

Felice sat down and stared before her. "Mister Morgan Lake …"

It’s a hot pot, cried Ida, like a child who can’t quite keep the secret long enough.

Oh, for goodness’ sakes. Agnes waved her small plump, rather dirty hand.

The ensuing dialogue was perfectly disjointed, yet perfectly comprehensible among the three of them.

Ida said, It’s electric. It boils water in less than three minutes.

Agnes said, He won’t paint your kitchen, I suppose. Well, of course, he won’t.

Felice said, "What do you want to boil water for?"

Ida said, Your poor kitchen? That’s too bad.

Agnes said, Make us a cup of tea, then. I think there are cookies.

Agnes always had cookies or cakes or candy or nuts. She almost never went anywhere but things came to her.

Felice said, "Sometimes I think Morgan Lake is the owner, himself."

Ida said, Can I unplug your toaster, Agnes?

Agnes said, Surely not. Or Rose Lake would let us know it, believe me. They’re in the round box, Ida. Oatmeal.

The three of them settled down in the midst of the clutter, very cozily. When the little elevator began to move (its protests were audible, here, so near its shaft) Agnes held up her hand for silence. They heard it go down, heard the door clang, heard it come up, the door crack … heard soft murmuring. Mrs. Fitz and Georgia Oliver, pronounced Agnes. Mrs. Fitz has been taking a sun bath for hours. Hoo! Her laugh was derisive. 208 came. Georgia better watch out, she said.

When’s Glamour-boy coming? asked Felice, who could read Agnes’ train of thought. About due, isn’t he?

Oh, yes. Wonder-boy is supposed to come back right around Christmas. You see the new one?

What’s she like?

Agnes, of course, knew. "She’s young," said Agnes and looked at her friends with malicious satisfaction.

(Youth is dynamite. Youth is trouble. Agnes Vaughn was seventy-four. Ida Milbank was sixty-six. Felice Paull was sixty-one. Youth is relative.)

Right across the hall from Mrs. Fitz. Oh, Agnes foresaw trouble.

What is her name? Hanley? Felice inquired.

Henly, said Agnes, firmly. From New York. Real smart. Nice clothes.

But the meaning of the arrival of Nona Henry slipped away from their tongues and their minds. Felice said, Did I tell you … my lawyer thinks the parking lot may be liable? There is no sign posted.

Ida said, Isn’t it cute? Her hand hovered near the small electric pot for heating water very, very quickly. I think it’s the cutest thing. And only nine ninety-eight.

The disjointed talk proceeded. The three of them nibbled and sipped, while dark came down upon Sans Souci. Downstairs, Morgan Lake touched the switch that lit the light over the entrance, the light in the far arch, and the double line of lamps on posts that marched beside the patio walk … before Oppie Etting came in, at five o’clock, to relieve him at the desk.

Therefore, Agnes Vaughn was able to say (for, night and day, whenever a figure moved below, Agnes Vaughn was usually aware of it), There she is, now!

Felice stood up and so did Ida. From the windows over the doors, three sets of eyes watched as Nona Henry, wearing her long tweedy top coat, walked away from the lamplit patio.

Out to dinner, pronounced Agnes Vaughn. She hasn’t had time to shop. Her pug-dog face looked shrewd. Agnes was often right, up to a point. Agnes often went a point farther. "I think she’s attractive, said Agnes. And looks like she might have a little snap to her, too. Hoo! Hoo! You just watch Mrs. Fitz’s baby-boy!"

Ida Milbank’s white-rat face looked wistfully stupid.

Felice rolled her cow-eyes. There was no doubt; Agnes Vaughn had the gift of imagination.

Oh, oh! cried Agnes. Oh, oh! Do you see what I see? There goes Harriet Gregory. There she goes!

Three sets of eyes watched a second figure, thin, driving, that followed upon Nona’s footsteps.

She’s got her hat on backwards, said Agnes with glee. Hoo! Hoo! She’s on the trail. Wouldn’t you think Harriet would give up? You notice Mrs. Rogan is through? Since Saturday?

Mrs. Rogan lasted two full weeks, said Felice, and that’s remarkable. Well, dinner. I think I’ve spoiled mine.

It won’t hurt your hips, said Agnes. Felice took no offense. She even smiled.

I’m just going to boil some eggs in my little pot, said Ida rapturously. She pulled out the plug, took up the new pot by its handle, and went trotting out, omitting farewells, happily absorbed.

Felice Paull lingered. Nine ninety-eight, she said and shook her head.

Oh well, said Agnes, reaching for a cookie. That’s Ida.

Felice left.

Agnes, with her small feet crossed over at the ankles, looking