Quicksand
was more amusing too. Perhaps because it was somehow a bit more dangerous.
In the midst of curious speculation as to the possible identity of the other guests, with an indefinite sense of annoyance she wondered if Anne would be there. There was of late something about Anne that was to Helga distinctly disagreeable, a peculiar half-patronizing attitude, mixed faintly with distrust. Helga couldn‘t define it, couldn‘t account for it. She had tried. In the end she had decided to dismiss it, to ignore it.
“I suppose,” she said aloud, “it‘s because she‘s married again. As if anybody couldn‘t get married. Anybody. That is, if mere marriage is all one wants.”
Smoothing away the tiny frown from between the broad black brows, she got herself into a little shining, rose-colored slip of a frock knotted with a silver cord. The gratifying result soothed her ruffled feelings. It didn‘t really matter, this new manner of Anne‘s. Nor did
219
