It was seven o'clock of a late April night, and
through an open window to her left came, from the little park beyond the
house, a faint breeze that stirred lazily the curtains and brought to
the jonquils, scattered about in numerous metal and crystal bowls, word
of their brothers in the dusk without. The room was quiet, save for the
hissing of the logs; remote, delicately lighted, filled with the subtle
odor of books and flowers; reminiscent of the suave personalities of
those who frequented it. On the diminutive piano in one corner, a large
silver frame, holding the photograph of a man in French uniform, caught
here and there on its surface high lights from the shaded wall-lamp
above. In the shelter of white bookcases, the backs of volumes in red
and tawny and brown gave the effect of tapestry cunningly woven. Mrs.
Ennis stared at the logs and smiled.
It was an odd smile, reflective, yet anticipatory; amused,
absent-minded, barely disturbing the lines of her beautifully modeled
red lips. Had any of Mrs. Ennis's enemies, and they were not few in
number, seen it, they would have surmised mischief afoot; had any of her
friends, and there were even more of these than enemies, been present,
they would have been on the alert for events of interest. It all
depended, you see, upon whether you considered a taste for amateur
psychology, indulged in, a wickedness or not.
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