Then, when the good-by's had been said,
and the promises to meet again had been given, they parted. One by one
the cars moved slowly down the driveway to the road. Only Gladys and
Rand, standing at the foot of the front steps, and the gingerbread-brown
butler were left.
"My, my; that was some party!" the Negro chuckled, gathering up three
empty pasteboard cartons and telescoping them together. "Dinner'll be
ready in about half an hour, Mrs. Fleming. Shall I go mix the cocktails
now?"
"Yes; do that, Reuben. In the drawing-room." She watched the servant
carry the discarded containers around the house, then turned to Rand.
"You know, not the least of your capabilities is your knack of finding
servant-replacements on short notice," she told him.
"My general factotum, Buck Pendexter, is a prominent personage in New
Belfast colored lodge circles," Rand said. "When your cook and maid quit
on you, the day of the blow-up, all I had to do was phone him, and he did
the rest." He got out his cigarettes, offered them, and snapped his
lighter. "I notice you're having cocktails in the drawing-room now."
"Yes. I suppose, in time, I'll stop imagining I see Fred Dunmore's blood
on the library floor. I got used to what had happened in the gunroom last
December.
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