e, watching the lanterns, and hearing
the voices die away after the last slamming of the gate, stood on the
dark porch staring into the night. The trees scarcely showed against a
heavy sky, a restless wind tossed their uppermost branches; a few drops
of rain fell on a little gust of air. The night was damp and heavy; it
pressed upon the village almost like a soft, smothering weight. Martie
felt as if she could hear the world breathe.

With miserable, dry eyes, she looked up at the enveloping blackness;
drops of rain on her burning face, a chill shaking her whole body in
the thin gown. Martie wanted to live no longer; she longed to press
somehow into that great silent space, to cool her burning head and
throbbing heart in those immeasurable distances on distances of dark.
She did not want to go back into the dreadful house, where the chairs
were pushed about, and the table a wreck of wilted flowers and crumbs,
where the air was still laden with the odour of coffee and cigarettes.
She did not want to reclaim her own shamed and helpless little entity
after this moment of escape.

Her own pain and mortification--ah, she could have borne those. But to
have Lydia and Sally and Len and all Monroe sorry for her ...

Martie did not sleep that night. She tossed in a restless agony of
remembering, and the pitiable party seemed a life-failure, as she lay
thinking of it in the dark, a colossal blunder never to be obliterated.
They were unlucky--the Monroes. They never could do things like other
people.

Early in the cold dawn she heard the quiet slop and spatter of rain.
Thank God there could be no picnic to-day! Exhausted, she slept.

CHAPTER VI

Whatever Lydia, her mother, and Sally agreed between themselves the
next day they never told, but there was a conspiracy immediately on
foot. Little was said of the party, and nothing of Rodney Parker, for
many days. And if Martie in her fever of hurt pride was not openly
grateful, at least they knew her benefited by the silence. Rose had no
such compunction.

On the afternoon of the long rainy Saturday that was to have been
filled with a picnic, Rose telephoned. She just wanted to see how every
one was--and say what a lovely time she'd had! Ida Parker had just
telephoned, and Rose was going up there at about four o'clock to stay
for dinner, just informally, of course. She would go back to Berkeley
to-morrow night, but she hoped to see the girls in the meantime.

Silently