she had never been and no one knew her. Failing that unobtainable luxury, here she was on the threshold of an empty house, in a deserted place, under lowering skies. She had shaken off Fred Gillow, sulkily departing for his moor (where she had half-promised to join him in September); the Prince, young Breckenridge, and the few remaining survivors of the Venetian group, had dispersed in the direction of the Engadine or Biarritz; and now she could at least collect her wits, take stock of herself, and prepare the countenance with which she was to face the next stage in her career. Thank God it was raining at Versailles!
The door opened, she heard voices in the drawing-room, and a slender languishing figure appeared on the threshold.
"Darling!" Violet Melrose cried in an embrace, drawing her into the dusky perfumed room.
"But I thought you were in China!" Susy stammered.
"In China . . . in China," Mrs. Melrose stared with dreamy eyes, and Susy remembered her drifting disorganised life, a life more plan-less, more inexplicable than that of any of the other ephemeral beings blown about upon the same winds of pleasure.
"Well, Madam, I thought so myself till I got a wire from Mrs. Melrose last evening," remarked the perfect house-keeper, following with Susy's hand-bag.
