After rather a long time she rose, looked at her reflection in the mirror, in the pitiless sunlight, sighed and going downstairs, wrote a telegram on Henry's desk; a telegram to Mr. Tulloss at Ursula.
"Please wire how a letter will reach Tom McNair." And she gave her city address. The local telegraph operator had a bad habit of telephoning her messages.
Late that night she went into Kay's room, but Kay had at last fallen asleep. Her reading lamp was going, and her hand still lay on an opened book. Bessie slid the book out carefully and looked at it. It was an oldish little volume of poetry, and there was a fine pencil mark around two lines:
And gray dawn saw his camp fires in the rain."
Bessie left the next morning, and found her telegram waiting in town. Tom had had bad luck, and had gone back to the Ninety Nine Ranch show. He was on his way to England, if he had not already sailed.
There was apparently nothing to be done, and as the days went on Bessie decided that perhaps it had been as well. Kay never mentioned the box again; was even on the surface quite normal. She went out a little, played tennis—although she tired easily—smiled rather too often and too quickly, went about her duties efficiently.
"Can you get some fresh caviare at the club, father? Mr. Trowbridge is coming to dinner."
When Trowbridge came Herbert generally came also, to make a fourth for bridge. The game would drag along:
"Now let's see. Put your king on, Henry! I've got you coming or going. That's the boy! Now, Herbert"
On and on; nine o'clock, ten o'clock, eleven; Herbert playing neatly and safely and generally winning. He took no chances, did Herbert. Mr. Trowbridge paying up reluctantly.
"Got any change, Herbert? I've nothing less than twenty."
