Hulburt had been eliminated. The assets of her social experience and mature charms were offset by the ease with which she could be won. He could, he knew, pick her like ripe fruit from the tree. And he preferred some effect of resistance. He knew instinctively that Sally would offer it, and Hildegarde.
And he wanted, too, youth. His own years would soon be heavy upon him. He must have gaiety about him, and laughter. It was, perhaps, because of this need of laughter that the balance had dipped in Sally's favor. She would dance through life to a rollicking measure. He liked to think of her dancing while he piped the tune.
Hildegarde, finer than Sally, might prove to be too fine. She was burdened with that uncomfortable thing called conscience. Her mother had had it. Winslow remembered her mother. A beautiful creature. He had once tried to make love to her. Her scorn had withered him.
And so it was Sally—Sally who at this moment, curled up on the window-seat, was like an enchanting child.
She liked Meriweather, of course. Anybody could see that. But Merry could be disposed of. There was that diplomatic post he talked of now and then. A little influence would do the trick, and Merry would be on the other side of the world.
Winslow smiled in the dark at the ease with which it could be done. Then, as the chimes of the hall clock came up to them: "I am taking you and your mother over to Stabler's, Sally. She said she would be ready at ten."
"Who else will be in your car?"
