He spied a tear in Lorraine’s gentle eyes. So he humbly added, “Never mind my growls, do as you like—you don’t dictate to me about the grafters I take to lunch or driving, do you?” Lorraine did not answer; she was thinking that Dan, too, was quite in the same category. Dan had never had any “joy” in seeing Lorraine until Thurley had gone away. Dan was no different in some respects from the others! Before the vacation occurred, with Owen, Josie and Cora as the guests, Lorraine rummaged in Dan’s chiffonier to find extra goggles for Cora and a linen motor coat for Owen. She came upon a magazine lying face downward. She understood why it was almost hidden, for it was a recent issue of a musical journal and the cover page was a brilliant color reproduction of a photograph of Thurley Precore as _Aïda_, glowing praise briefly written underneath. Thurley wore a mesh of lace studded with brilliants; she half reclined on a divan, like some legendary queen dreaming in the blue-black night! Lorraine did not know how long she had been crouching on the floor as if she were a child discovering hidden Christmas presents. Dan came in and, bending down, gently took the magazine away. Lorraine started up. She realized the contrast between the photograph and herself far more than Dan—since Dan only realized Thurley. Her bungalow apron over a pink house dress, her heelless slippers, her unpowdered, flushed face—and that gorgeous, super-person smiling out so temptingly at them both! “’Raine, do you mind—just having the picture?” he asked with none of his customary aggression. “Why, no—of course not.” She was glad to make her escape. That night Dan brought his wife some roses and told her she had on a becoming dress; he was glad Cora Spooner was to be Owen’s clerk—after all, it took all kinds of fools to make a world. And on the same night Thurley, closing her season, received among other offerings a handsome basket of orchids and lilies tied with silvery tulle. The card said, “From an old friend.” CHAPTER XXIV Thurley’s summer was spent unwisely. She excused this by apparently sound reasons. First, she was tired from the season’s work and the unusual social demands which it seemed wisest to endure. Secondly, her jealous curiosity was roused at Bliss Hobart’s mysterious departure without explanation of where he was going or how long he would remain away, an almost brusque leave-taking which consisted of a brief cup of tea at Thurley’s apartment, telling her some critical things about her voice and answering lightly when she questioned him as to his whereabouts, “I go to my castle in Spain, really, nothing but a simple little hermitage in the Maine woods. I assure you it would be of no interest. Now I must be off, for it is like uprooting an oak every time I go away. I like to leave things as shipshape as possible before I begin to play.” “Are you never lonesome?” she persisted.