get nearly enough sunshine." Alayne's voice was cold and distant. She could scarcely conceal her antagonism for this full-blooded girl. She felt that beside her she looked colourless, listless.
"How is your husband?" asked Minny Ware. "Better, I hope. It must be rotten to have anything wrong with one's lungs. I believe mine are made of indiarubber." The full, effortless laugh gushed forth. She looked ready to burst into song. "Thank you," returned Alayne rigidly. "He is getting better."
Minny Ware went on blithely: "Mr. Whiteoak was suggesting to me that I go over one day and sing to him. He thought it might cheer him up. Do you think he'd like it?"
"I dare say he would." But there was no note of encouragement in her voice.
"I should go mad without music myself," said Minny. "I suppose you get wonderful music in New York."
"Very good." Alayne's lips scarcely moved. She looked straight ahead of her.
"I'll be going there myself one day. I'll have to get you to put me on to the ropes."
Alayne did not answer.
Patience was making bubbly noises and holding up her hands toward the horse.
Pheasant laughed. "She's a perfect Whiteoak! Look at her, she's asking to get into the saddle."
With a swift movement of her white bare arm, Minny lifted the child and swung it to the horse's back, and supported it there. "How's that, Ducky?" she gurgled. "Nice old gee-gee!" She clapped the horse on the flank.
"For God's sake, be careful, Minny!" cried Pheasant. "He's nervous." She patted him soothingly.
"Is he?" laughed Minny. "He seems a docile little beast. Doesn't she look a lamb on horseback?"
Patience indeed looked charming, the downy brown hair on her little head blown, her eyes bright with excitement. She clutched the rein in her tiny hands and cooed in ecstasy.
