Manslaughter

								

"The little diamond bracelet. You were wearing it this afternoon."
Something panic-stricken and excited in the girl's tone annoyed Lydia.
"I must have dropped it," she said.
The maid gave a little cry as if she herself had suffered a loss.
"Oh, to lose a valuable bracelet like that!"
"If I don't mind I don't see why you should, Evans."
Evans began unhooking her skirt in silence.
Twenty minutes later she was being driven rapidly toward the Piers'.
These minutes were among the most contemplative of her life, shut in for
a few seconds alone without possibility of interruption. Now as she
leaned back she thought how lonely her life was--always facing criticism
alone. Was she a bully, as Ilseboro had said? Perhaps she was hard. But
then how could you get things done if you were soft? There was Benny.
Benny, with many excellent abilities, was soft, and look where she
was--a paid companion at fifty-five. Lydia suspected that ten years
before her father had wanted to marry Benny, and Benny had refused.
Lydia thought she knew why--because Benny thought old Joe Thorne a
vulgar man whom she didn't love. Very high-minded, of course, and yet
wasn't there a sort of weakness in not taking your chance and putting
through a thing like that? Wouldn't Benny be more a person from every
point of view if she had decided to marry the old man for his money? If
she had she'd have been his widow now, and Lydia a dependent
step-daughter. How she would have hated that!
The Piers had built a perfect French château, and had been successful in
changing the scrubby woods into gardens and terraces and groves. Lydia
stepped out of the car and paused on the wide marble steps, wrapping
her cloak about her with straight arms, as an Indian wraps his blanket
about him. She turned her head slightly at her chauffeur's inquiry as to
the hour of her return.
"Oh," she said, "eight--ten--bridge. Come back at eleven."
The mirrors in the Piers' dressing room were flattering as she dropped
her cloak with one swift motion into the hands of the waiting servant
and saw a reflection of her slim gold-and-green figure with the emerald
band across her forehead.
She saw at a glance on entering the drawing-room that it wasn't a very
good party--only eight, and nothing much in the line of bridge players.
She listened temperately to Fanny Piers' explanation that four people
had given out since six o'clock. She nodded, admitting the excuse and
reserving the opinion that if the Piers gave better parties people
wouldn't chuck them so often.
She looked about. There was Tim Andrews again. Well, she could always
amuse herself well enough with Tim. May Swayne--a soft blond creature
whom Lydia had known for many years and ignored. Indeed, May was as
little aware of Lydia's methods as a mole of a thunderstorm. Then there
was Hamilton Gore, the lean home wrecker of a former generation, not
bad--a little elderly, a little too epigrammatic for the taste of this