eyes doglike, temporarily silent. Suddenly she had an inspiration.
“Come, people, let’s all go to my house for dinner. Then we can discuss it at our ease.”
Mr. Talliaferro demurred. “I am engaged this evening, you know,” he reminded her.
“Oh, Mr. Talliaferro.” She put her hand on his sleeve. “Don’t you fail me, too. I always depend on you when people fail me. Can’t you defer your engagement?”
“Really, I am afraid not. Not in this case,” Mr. Talliaferro replied smugly. “Though I am distressed . . .”
Mrs. Maurier sighed. “These women! Mr. Talliaferro is perfectly terrible with women,” she informed Gordon. “But you will come, won’t you?”
The niece had drifted up to them and stood rubbing the calf of one leg against the other shin. Gordon turned to her. “Will you be there?”
Damn their little souls, she whispered on a sucked breath. She yawned. “Oh, yes. I eat. But I’m going to bed darn soon.” She yawned again, patting the broad pale oval of her mouth with brown fingers.
“Patricia!” her aunt exclaimed in shocked amazement. “Of course you will do nothing of the kind. The very idea! Come, Mr. Gordon.”
“No, thanks. I am engaged myself,” he answered stiffly. “Some other time, perhaps.”
“I simply won’t take No for an answer. Do help me, Mr. Talliaferro. He simply must come.”
“Do you want him to come as he is?” the niece asked.
Her aunt glanced briefly at the undershirt, and shuddered. But she said bravely: “Of course, if he wishes. What are clothes, compared with this?” she described an arc with her
