at desks and the tables of directors' meetings, women who welcomed even these familiar gatherings as breaks in the monotony of their luxurious days. Surely one must live, must do and be. No wonder old Lucius had revolted, had played as robustly as he had done everything else. And she remembered a story where a party of magnates, after a night of poker and certain accompaniments, had gone out to the swimming pool and jumped in, clothing and all. And one of them, who did not know how to swim, had forgotten he did not know and had almost drowned.
She was singularly detached those days. Never before had she questioned the life she lived, or Henry and Katherine's right to dictate to her. Now she did.
They still had, although she was of age, certain arbitrary powers over her which they would use unscrupulously; the power of affection, the power of money, the power of long habitual authority. And against them what had she? Aunt Bessie, perhaps. She thought Bessie might understand, might even help her when the time came.
She was certain that some day, somehow, the time would come.
And then Bessie did come, and failed her absolutely.
She wandered in, said her maid was outside with her bags, that her house was too dirty to live in. She was staying until it was cleaned. Then she lighted a cigarette, sat down, and took off her hat.
"New hair cut!" she said. "Ears again. It's a frightful nuisance. One has to wash them and everything. Of course if they stick out it won't do." She eyed Kay with her head slightly on one side.
"What's the matter with you, child? You look washed-out. Didn't the ranch agree with you?"
"I'm all right. Maybe it's leaving the altitude. I don't sleep very well."
Bessie glanced at her, blew through her cigarette holder and getting up moved languidly toward the door.
"The usual place, I suppose, Katherine? I'm going to bathe and take a nap. Come in and see me after a while, Kay. I want to hear about things."
