And gray dawn saw his camp fires in the rain."
She put the book down thoughtfully. Had old Lucius ever read them? Probably not. Curious how they made her think of him; she must take some flowers to the cemetery. Bessie never remembered to do it.
Strangely enough, since that visit to the ranch she had seemed to understand the old man better. Perhaps people who had fought a hostile land and conquered it had a different sense of values; had even a right to have them. Then, wasn't it possible that they were wrong about Kay and this cowboy? Why should they assume that their way was the best? Who was to know or judge? One accepted certain standards without question because it was easy. Certain things were done, certain things were not. But old Lucius had said "I do certain things," and had let it go at that.
She never spoke those thoughts of hers. She went about her small efficient arrangements for closing the house; "Don't forget to cover the drawing room chandelier, James"; watched Kay furtively and with a growing anxiety, and later on went dutifully to the cemetery and placed a dozen roses in the jar before the ugly shaft.
It was as though she propitiated some old and possibly angry God.
Perhaps even Henry was not so unobservant as he seemed. He bought some new pearls and had them added to his mother's string for Kay, and he even put them on her neck himself, with a sort of heavy jocularity. But if he noticed then how thin she was he said nothing.
The season in town had opened early. On the breakfast tray as it was brought into Kay's room would be numbers of heavy white envelopes, each containing an invitation to something or other. "Mr. and Mrs. Aurelius Fetterman request the pleasure of the company of Miss Katherine Dowling at a small dance," at dinner, at luncheon, at breakfast.
Varying these would be the times when the Dowlings
