His shyness shrank
from the ceremony, his caution jibbed at the mysteries of married
life. So his attitude toward Claire, the only girl who had
succeeded in bewitching him into the opening words of an actual
proposal, was a little less cordial and affectionate than if she
had been a rival automobile manufacturer.
Matters were in this state when Lady Wetherby, who, having danced
classical dances for three months without a break, required a
rest, shifted her camp to the house which she had rented for the
summer at Brookport, Long Island, taking with her Algie, her
husband, the monkey Eustace, and Claire and Mr Pickering, her
guests. The house was a large one, capable of receiving a big
party, but she did not wish to entertain on an ambitious scale.
The only other guest she proposed to put up was Roscoe Sherriff,
her press agent, who was to come down as soon as he could get away
from his metropolitan duties.
It was a pleasant and romantic place, the estate which Lady
Wetherby had rented. Standing on a hill, the house looked down
through green trees on the gleaming waters of the bay. Smooth
lawns and shady walks it had, and rustic seats beneath spreading
cedars. Yet for all its effect on Dudley Pickering it might have
been a gasworks. He roamed the smooth lawns with Claire, and sat
with her on the rustic benches and talked guardedly of lubricating
oil.
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