Part 6 (1/2)

”She must subscribe to the _Ladies' Home Journal_,” Nellie Whitehead had commented one day. ”You know that 'go-up-into-the-garret-and-get-five- yards-of-grandmother's-wedding-gown' column. Well, she's a walking ad for it. She's no raving beauty, but if she would throw out her chest and chuck those flat-heeled clogs of hers, and put a marcel wave in her hair, maybe the old man would sit up and take notice.”

To which Miss Munch had replied:

”Well, she's a mighty sweet woman, anyway!” in a tone calculated to freeze the irrepressible Nellie Whitehead into silence.

”Who says she isn't? And at that, a good tailor-made suit and a decent-looking hat won't spoil her disposition any....”

The children, too, were what Nellie Whitehead had termed ”perfect guys.”

On warm days Mrs. Flint would drag these two daughters of hers into the office, dressed in plaid suits and velveteen hats; and when a cold north wind blew it seemed inevitable that they would appear in gay and airy costumes up to their knees, with impossible straw bonnets trimmed with daisies and faded cornflowers, reminiscent of the white-leghorn-hat era.

”Men don't marry women for their clothes,” Miss Munch used to say, challengingly, to Nellie.

”Oh, don't they, indeed! Well, I've lived longer than sixteen and a half years and I've noticed that it's the up-to-the-minute dame that gets away with it and holds onto it every time, just the same. And any woman silly enough to work the rag-bag game when her husband can afford seven yards of taffeta and a b.u.t.terick pattern is a fool!”

Claire knew women who looked dowdy on dress-parade and yet managed to be quite charming in their own houses. She was wondering whether this might not be Mrs. Flint's case; anyway, she had hoped for a chance to decide this point, and now Mrs. Flint was not at home.

As she settled into her matting-covered seat in the train she began to wonder just who _would_ be home at the Flint establishment. And she thought suddenly of the disagreeable emphasis that Mrs. Richards had seen fit to give the fact that Mrs. Flint was bound cityward. At this stage she became lost in discovering so many points of contact between Mrs. Richards and her cousin, Miss Munch. Then the train started with a quick lurch, and a view of the rapidly darkening landscape claimed her utterly.

Claire always took a childish delight in watching the panorama of the countryside unroll swiftly before the s.p.a.ce-conquering flight of a train. And to-night the quick close of the December day warned her to make the most of her opportunity. The wind was whipping the upper reaches of the bay into a shallow fury, and the water in turn was beating against the slimy mud and swallowing it up in gray, futile anger. This part of the ride just out of Sausalito was always more or less depressing unless a combination of full tide and vivid suns.h.i.+ne gave its muddy stretches the enlivening grace of sky-blue reflections.

Worm-eaten and tottering piles, abandoned hulks, half-swamped skiffs, all the water-logged dissolution of stagnant sh.o.r.e lines the world over, flashed by, to be succeeded by the fresher green of channel-cut marshes.

The hills were wind-swept, huddling their scant oak covering into the protecting folds of shallow canons. At intervals, clumps of eucalyptus-trees banded together or drew out in long, thin, soldier-like lines.

Presently it began to rain. There was no preliminary patter, but the storm broke suddenly, hurling great gray drops of moisture against the windows. Claire withdrew from any further attempt to watch the whirling landscape. It was now quite dark, the short December day dying even more suddenly under a black pall of lowering clouds.

She began to have distinctly uncomfortable thoughts about her visit to the Flints'. But the more uncomfortable her thoughts became, the more reason she brought to bear for conquering them. Surely one was not to be persuaded into a panic by any such person as Mrs. Richards! And by the time the brakeman announced the train's approach to Yolanda, Claire had recovered her common sense. What of it if Mrs. Flint had gone to town?

There must be other women in the household--at least a maid. It was absurd! The train stopped and Claire got off.

Flint's car was waiting, and Jerry Donovan, the chauffeur, stood with a dripping umbrella almost at Claire's elbow as she hopped upon the platform.

As they swished through the inky blackness, Claire said to Jerry, with as inconsequential an air as she could muster:

”I thought I saw Mrs. Flint get off the boat in town. But I guess I was mistaken. She wouldn't be leaving Mr. Flint alone ... when he's ill.”

”Ill?” Jerry chuckled. ”Well, he ain't dead by a long shot. Just a case of sniffles, and a good excuse for hitting the booze. He's in prime condition, I can tell you.”

Claire had never seen Flint in ”prime condition,” but she had it from Nellie Whitehead that there were moments when the gentleman in question could ”go some,” to use her predecessor's precise terms.

”About twice a year,” Nellie had once confided to Claire, ”the old boy starts in to cure a cold. I helped him cure one ... but _never_ again!”

Jerry's observations aroused fresh anxiety, but they did not settle the issue for Claire. She felt that she could not turn back at the eleventh hour. There was nothing else for her to do but go through with the game.

Yet she still hoped for the best.

”_Did_ Mrs. Flint go to town to-day?” she finally asked, point-blank.

”Sure thing,” said Jerry, swinging the car past the Flint gateway.

Claire refused to be totally lacking in faith.

”There must be a maid,” flashed through her mind, as Jerry stopped the car and swung down to help her out.