It occurred to him that something had died in Sally since he last saw her. He spoke of it.
"You are as thin as a sheet of paper. And your eyes are tired."
"Flatterer."
"Don't be flippant, Sally. Aren't you well?"
"Bored stiff."
"Thank you."
"Oh, I don't mean with you, Merry. With life."
"I saw something of that in your letters from Paris. They struck a deeper note. I felt that I had never before known the real Sally."
She shrugged her shoulders. "There isn't any real Sally. I am four-sided like a painted wooden block—and every side different—"
She broke off as her mother joined them: "What is it, mother?"
"I've told Louis we'd go back to Round Hill to-night. There's really nothing we can do in town over Sunday."
"That's what I said."
"I know. But I thought we'd be ready to start fresh and early on Monday morning. But Louis wants to drive us in."
Hildegarde heard of the change of plan when she told her father, "I've asked Crispin to motor out with us."
"Harlowe? To Round Hill?"
"Yes!"
"Is he here?"
"He left a few moments ago. It is all right, isn't it?"
