Henderson daily dispatch. (Henderson, N.C.) 1914-1995, 1939-11-29
CHAPTER ELEVEN

FOR NEARLY a fortnight Fa-
bienne had been in Maryland. 1t
was the way it always was when
she was there. Long, cool, sweet
sleep. Bright mornings, Molly fuss
ing over her, brushing her corn-silk
hair, lovingly caring for her clothes.
Dance frOcks in the scented closet.
Uncle Mark and Aunt Edna wait
ing up for her whatever hour she
came in. Cookies and milk at three
o'clock in the morning in front of
the fire in the library or in Uncle
Marks study. Gossip about the
party.
The dances. The same faces. The
high-ceilinged rooms and the col
ored boys playing waltzes back of
the potted palms. Miss Kate and
Miss Viola Lee in their lavendar
laces and painted shawls. The Cos
ling girls still beau snatching. The
elderly "eligible bachelor" who had
courted her mother and was paying
the same compliments to her. The
laden banquet boards and the rich
Bullets. The big, pale pink hams
and hot breads. The wine cups and
steaming toddies. The baked oys-
tiers and fried chicken. The tinkling
laughter and slurred voices. The So
cial south that never changed.
Those were her nights, one after
another.
There were the days. The morn
ing rides-hard, fast riding over
swept turf, over the first light
snow. for now it was December.
Rides on fresh mornings that
cracked with energy and ended in
nothingness.
Back to Nicky's or James or
someone else's and a highball be-
fore lunch. Lunch that lasted into
the afternoon hours. Home to
change, or on to someone else's
house in riding clothes for cock
tails and talk about horses or other
people. And beaux, young and old,
for, seemingly, no man in her set
in that part Of the country did any
work.
The days and the nights with the
sameness and gaiety that Fabienne
felt must be forced insOmuch as it
had never changed, began to pail
upon her and restlessness to which
she had never before been pray,
fell upon her.
She took to proving the lanes
on foot, avoiding the telephone,
finding herself in the grip Of a
deadly ennui.
Sometimes, looking at the sky
and noting the shifting light that
marked the hour, pictures came to
her.
Now it is four o'clock. The chill
drens games are noisy in the west
wing Of Willoughby house. Her
own little class would be rehears-
ing the play she had directed.
Six o'clock. Another girl would
be clearing the desk in the chill
dren's clinic. Ellen Chapman, think
ing of her evening date with Bill
Mallory, everywhere at once. Busy,
happy, working.
But Ellen Chapman wouldn't be
CdlloQ IOT III d ILOllS COWIlCdl. LII
wouldn't have a new white and sill
yer gown to wear at dance in a
ballroom that had seen three presi-
dents dancing there.
Fabienne was putting on the
white and silver gown when Molly
brought up the evening mail.
She pulled the dress over her
head and, without waiting to hook
it, sat on one Of Fabienne de
Courcy's little spindle-legged chairs
and ran through the pile Of letters.
There was one from Paris. That
would be from Gertrude.
Fabienne slit the tissue-thin en-
velope. Her mothers neat, small
handwriting covered four sheets.
&c. don't think I shall come
over for Christmas, after ALL" Ger
trude wrote 1--WE been invited to
Nice with some amusing people.
And it isn't as if you were all chill
dren and needed me to have a
happy holiday. The twins"-the