Nona tiptoed forward and looked down on her. Who said that sleep revealed people's true natures? It only made them the more enigmatic by the added veil of its own mystery. Lita's head was nested in the angle of a thin arm, her lids rounded heavily above the sharp cheek-bones just swept by their golden fringe, the pale bow of the mouth relaxed, the slight steel-strong body half shown in the parting of a flowered dressing-gown. Thus exposed, with gaze extinct and loosened muscles, she seemed a mere bundle of contradictory whims tied together by a frail thread of beauty. The hand of the downward arm hung open, palm up. In its little hollow lay the fate of three lives. What would she do with them? How could one conceive of her knowing, or planning, or imagining--conceive of her in any sort of durable human relations to any one or anything? Her eyes opened and a languid curiosity floated up through them. "That you? I must have fallen asleep. I was trying to count up the number of months we've been here, and numbers always make me go to sleep." Nona laughed and sat down at the foot of the lounge. "Dear me--just as I thought you were beginning to be happy!" "Well, isn't this what you call being happy--in the country?" "Lying on your back, and wondering how many months there are in a week?" "A week? Is it only a week? How on earth can you be sure, when one day's so exactly like another?" "Tomorrow won't be. There's the blow-out for Amalasuntha, and dancing afterward. Mother's idea of the simple life." "Well, all your mother's ideas _are_ simple." Lita yawned, her pale pink mouth drooping like a faded flower. "Besides, it's ages till tomorrow. Where's your father? He was going to take me for a spin in the new Buick." "He's broken his promise, then. Deserted us all and sneaked off to Greystock on his lone." A faint redness rose to Lita's cheek-bones. "Greystock and Gladys Toy? Is that _his_ idea of the simple life? About on a par with your mother's... Did you ever notice the Toy ankles?" Nona smiled. "They're not unnoticeable. But you forget that father's getting to be an old gentleman... Fathers mustn't be choosers..." Lita made a slight grimace. "Oh, he could do better than that. There's old Cosby, who looks heaps older--didn't he want to marry you? ... Nona, you darling, let's take the Ford and run over to Greenwich for dinner. Would your mother so very much mind? Does she want us here the whole blessed time?" "I'll go and ask her. But on a Friday night the Country Club will be as dead as the moon. Only a few old ladies playing bridge." "Well, then we'll have the floor to ourselves. I want a good practice, and it's a ripping floor. We can dance with the waiters. It'll be fun to shock the old ladies. I noticed one of the waiters the other day--must be an Italian--built rather like Tommy Ardwin... I'm sure he dances..."