She thought of leaving the Beck house less and less these days, though the suitcase remained packed underneath her creaky bed. In a moment the brisk evening breeze caught the lank canvas and bellied it taut. Most of my people are upstairs dressing for dinner. ’ ‘Wouldn’t you?’ ‘In Valade’s place, with so much at stake—and more perhaps than he thought, for if he goes to the lawyers he’s bound to find out about this house—’ Hilary said it for him. “You are too good for me,” she said in a low voice. It seemed at first the most beautiful afternoon of all time to her, and perhaps the thrill of her excitement did add a distinctive and culminating keenness to the day. At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard. The house was redolent with the smells of cinnamon baking and the stuffed turkey and marinated pork roast. " [Illustration: Distinctive Pictures Corporation.
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