Never intoxicated, a slight amount of
alcohol had a tendency to make her morose.
"What's the matter, Cleo?" asked Wheeler, sitting down beside her and
lifting her cool fingers one by one, and, by reason of some remote
analogy that must have stirred within him, seeing in her a Nile queen.
"What's the matter Cleo? Does the spook stuff get your goat?"
She turned on him eyes that were all troubled up, like waters suddenly
wind-blown.
"God!" she said, her fingers, nails inward, closing about his arm.
"Wheeler--can--can the--dead--speak?"
But fleeting as the hours themselves were the moods of them all, and
the following morning there they were, the eight of them, light with
laughter and caparisoned again as to hampers, veils, coats, dogs, off
for a day's motoring through the springtime countryside.
"Where to?" shouted Wheeler, twisting from where he and Hester sat in
the first of the cars to call to the two motor-loads behind.
"I thought Crystal Cave was the spot"--from May Denison in the last of
the cars, winding her head in a scarlet veil.
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