Alice Duer Miller

“ Every man on the beach is mad to find out what you're really like.”
“I think it's perfectly disgusting!” said Deborah. It was disgusting when she thought of the other men, but when she thought of Brainard—oddly enough she noted that the idea of her name being associated with his was not so revolting as it should have been. “Besides,” she added after a second, “suppose the people at home heard about it?”
Mary laughed. “People at home aren't as different perhaps as you think they are. But don't worry; if they heard of it they wouldn't believe it. They know you, and they know Flora.” ”

“ Deborah felt guilty. “I'm awfully sorry,” she answered. “Bursting in like that. But you know,” she added, smiling, “it's a good deal of an adventure to tackle you. You're a good deal of a proposition, Lady Armistead. It needed a lot of courage.” ”

“ From the emotion she experienced at seeing him again—more splendid and blank than ever—one terrible idea emerged: He was going to make it clear—to her if to no one else—that he had never taken the least interest in her, that no scandal ever had or ever could group itself about her and him as central figures. ”

“ With the pink cloak billowing out behind her she was tearing up the long steps of the hotel after Lady Armistead.
The old lady, who suffered, as most of her family did, from gout, moved slowly, and Deb caught her halfway up—the most conspicuous spot in the whole Lido.
“Lady Armistead,” she asked fiercely, “what have you heard about me?”
The old lady straightened herself with some difficulty, looked at Deborah without the slightest change of expression while you might have counted three, and then she said, “It would take rather too long to tell,” and began to go on. ”

“ She was an excellent companion; she was fond of horses and dogs, she rode and drove and motored; she played a good game of tennis and a fair game of golf; she was distinctly an out-of-doors girl, and yet she was so finely made that in evening dress she looked as slim and fragile as any fainting heroine of the early nineteenth century. Only in her movements there was a vigor and firmness that meant strength; her slender ankle never shook, her wrist never trembled. ”

“ Her cousin was sleeping and Flora was resting and could not be disturbed. All was going well. She busied herself with unpacking and arranging her dresses for the round of parties she saw ahead of her.
A pretty girl of nineteen does not, unless she has something morbid in her nature, inquire too closely why it is that her fellows like her. Deborah wasted little time on this aspect of her situation. All she regretted was that Brainard should have gone away before she came into her own. She knew he would have been at all these parties; she had noticed how civil the Italians were to him. ”

“ She did not know how she was going to get in, short of strangling Parker, but as a matter of fact the door was not even locked. She opened it and walked in. Lady Armistead was not resting, she was writing a letter—in purple ink on cross-hatched paper. She looked up as Deborah entered and said, “Really!”
The English make fun of us for our universal use of the word “well,” but really they overwork “really” in much the same way. They make it express interest and disbelief and belief and surprise and, as Lady Armistead now used it, extreme protest. ”

“ Instead she began thinking about Brainard.
She was interrupted in this pleasing occupation by the entrance of Flora, Flora looking so distracted that Deborah's first thought was that Bradley must be dead.
“Oh, no, no,” said Flora; “he's all right. He'll be up to-morrow. See here, Deb, I had nothing to do with your coming here. I know it's no place for young girls. It isn't my fault that you've got yourself into a mess.” ”

“ Deborah was delighted to see that he wasn't a bit more cordial to Flora, with whom he had been dancing a good deal, than to her, with whom he had not wanted to dance at all.
“Oh, I don't care if I do,” said Flora. “Come on. I left a scarf down there this afternoon in my tent, and I want to find it. The moon is bright enough.”
The next moment Deborah was standing alone on the terrace. Brainard had said something about not liking to leave her alone, and she had answered that it was all right, she was going to bed.
“Yes,” Flora agreed; “she must be tired.” ”

“ Then it draws fashionable English people who do not care for shooting, and Americans who find the month dull in London and Paris, and yet are by no means ready to go home.
Deborah had been in France most of the summer with her parents, but as they were starting for Venice, which was to be the climax of their trip, they had been summoned to Scotland by the illness of an old friend. They were grateful to their cousin, Bradley Goreham, who suggested that Deborah should join his wife and himself, already established at the Lido. ”

“ Deborah had been brought up to be polite to the aged, but she had something of the American feeling that it is always youth that confers the favor. It never crossed her mind that her conversation could be unwelcome, and as a matter of fact it was cordially received. She told the old lady a good deal about America, Boston and the Goreham family. ”

“ But Deborah couldn't agree to this. More than the scandal the remembrance of Lady Armistead's insolence poisoned her whole being. She must settle the score with the old lady.
Still in her dry bathing dress—her interview with Mary had taken place in Flora's tent on the beach—still with her pink cloak wrapped about her, she went to the desk and inquired the number of Lady Armistead's sitting room, and went straight there, unannounced. ”