, a heaviness and staleness now
about the whole atmosphere of the party, and this, like the unnatural
excitement which it followed, and like the light, endless fire of
inconsequent, malicious chatter, always the same, whether it meant
nothing or meant real trouble brewing, was an essential part of all the
Colonel's parties, too.
The Judge regarded the change with faraway eyes, as he talked on in the
wistful voice that goes with talking your own private language openly to
people who cannot answer you in it.
"Don't need the moon, do we, with those lanterns? But it was here first,
and will be a long time after, and it's a good moon, too; quite
decorative for a moon."
"I hate it," said Mrs. Randall, with a personal vindictiveness not
usually directed against natural phenomena. The Judge took no immediate
notice of it. More guests had gone. In a cleared circle in the heart of
the lanternlight Mrs. Kent was performing one of the more expurgated
and perfunctory of her dances for the benefit of the select audience
that remained, to scattered, perfunctory applause. The motif of it was
faintly Spanish.
"Paper doll," commented the Judge, "that's all that girl is. You and
Harry are the best of them, Minna. They're a faky lot, all of
them--about as real as a house of cards. It looks big, but it will all
tumble down if you pull one card out--only one card. The devil of it is
to know which card to take hold of, and who's to pull it out if you
haven't got the nerve? I haven't. I'm too old. But it's a comfort to
think of it. Don't you agree with me?"
"I didn't really hear you."
"Minna, I've known you since you were two. Can't you tell me what's the
matter? You're frightened."
She looked at him for a minute as if she could, turning a paling face to
him, with the mask off and the eyes miserable, then she tried to laugh.
"Nothing's the matter. Nothing new."
"Well, there's enough wrong here without anything new," said the Judge,
rebuffed but still gentle. "I won't trouble you any longer, my dear.
There comes Harry."
Mrs. Randall's husband, an unmistakable figure even with the garden and
the broad, unlighted lawn between, stood in the rectangle of light that
one of the veranda windows made, slender and boyish still in spite of
the slight stoop of his shoulders, and then started across the lawn
toward the garden.
His wife got rather stiffly to her feet and waited, looking away from
the lighted enclosure, over the low
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