considered
actions, and she soon forgot that Ilseboro had ever existed, except for
certain things she had learned from him--a way of being silent while
people explained to you you couldn't do something you intended to do,
and then doing it instead of arguing about it, as had been her old
habit; and an excellent manner with butlers too.

Her foot pressed gently on the accelerator, when the road became
straight, holding the car now at forty miles. On either side of the road
purple cabbages grew like a tufted carpet to the very edge of the
macadam, without fences or hedges to protect them. There was enough mist
in the autumn air to magnify the low hills along the Sound to an
imposingly vague bulk, and to turn the cloudless sky to a threatening
bluish gray. In every other direction the flat, fertile, sandy plains of
Long Island stretched uninterruptedly.

It was really a beautiful afternoon--too beautiful to spend playing
bridge in a stuffy room. It might be more sensible, she thought, to
break up the party, kidnap Bobby and drive him over to sit on the edge
of the water and watch the moon rise; only she rather feared the moon
was over. Of course she was dining at the Leonard Piers' that evening,
but it was a party eminently chuckable--that is to say, she was going to
please them rather than herself. Anyhow, she would have Eleanor move the
bridge table out on the terrace. Eleanor was so stupid about preferring
to play indoors.

A minute figure, smaller than a man's hand, flashed into the little
mirror at her left. Was it--no--yes? A bicycle policeman! Well, she
would give him a little race for his stupidity in not recognizing her.
She loved speed--it made her a little drunk. The needle swung to
forty-five--to fifty, and hung there. She passed a governess cart full
of children with a sound like "whist" as the wind rushed by. Now there
was a straight road, and clear.

The miniature figure kept growing and growing until it seemed to fill
the whole circle of the mirror. The sound of the motorcycle drowned the
sound of her own car. A voice shouted "Stop!" almost in her ear. Turning
her head slightly to the left, she saw a khaki figure was abreast of
her. She slowed the car down and stopped it. A sunburned young face
flushed with anger glared at her.

"Here, what do you think this is? A race track?"

Lydia did not answer, staring straight ahead of her. She was thinking
that it was a foolish waste of taxpayers' money to kee