CHAPTER
XXIII
Spzrine was turbulent in the sap of young trees and the blood of young humans when Mary Delia James rolled along Fifth Avenue in the quietly elegant limousine provided for her special use by a correctly generous husband. Nothing about her suggested participation in the turbulence of the season.
Rather, life with that most unvernal
young man, T. Jameson James, would have served to allay any tendencies toward ebullience which she might otherwise have exhibited. She gave the impression of a cool impassivity. The car had just turned into a side street when her languid expression livened. She signalled to her chauffeur, leaned out of the window and called:
“Cary! Cary Scott!” The object of the summons turned in mid-crossing and came back, his eyes shining with pleasure. “Dee! It is good to see you again. How’s James?” “All right, thank you. What do you mean by turning up and not letting us know?” “Unexpected,” he explained. “I hardly had time to find it out before I was here.” “The telegraph, that useful invention, is still operating. Get in; we’re blocking traffic. You’re dining and spend-
ing the night with us, of course.” “Tf I stay over,’ he answered dubiously. “I don’t know yet. Tell me about the family.” “As usual. We’re all flourishing in true Fentriss style.” “Pat? And Mr. Fentriss? And the Brownings?” 237
