THE GAY COCKADE
in its springtime—girl and boy—dreams, rapture, radiance.
Then, in a moment, Columbine was dead, and Harlequin wept over her—frost had killed the flower—love and life were at an end.
Christopher was drawing deep breaths. Anne was tense. But now—Columbine was on her feet, and Harlequin was blowing kisses to the audience!
"Let's get out of this," Christopher said, almost roughly, and led Anne down the steps and into the almost deserted outer tent. They looked for the snake-charmer, but he was gone. "Eating rice somewhere or saying his prayers," Christopher surmised.
"How could he know about the gods?" Anne asked, as they drove home.
"They know a great deal—these old men of the East," Christopher told her, and talked for the rest of the way about the strange people among whom he had spent so many years.
V
Ridgeley did not come home to dinner. He telephoned that he would be late. It was close and warm. Christopher, sitting with Anne and Jeanette on the porch, decided that a storm was brewing.
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