The lieutenant wished to go to the pavilion, but Tisdale excused himself from joining them, and was left alone again with his thoughts.  Then he was conscious the other women had remained in the apartment.  They had come into the inner room, and Mrs. Feversham, having found an electric button, flooded the interior with light.  On the balcony a blue bulb glowed.  Tisdale turned a little more and, leaning on the casement, waited for them to come through the open door.

“What do you say to furnishing this suite in bird’s-eye maple?” asked Marcia.  “With rugs and portieres in old blue.”

Mrs. Weatherbee shaded her dazzled eyes with her hand and looked critically around.  “The maple would be lovely,” she said, “but—­do you know,” and she turned to her companion with an engaging smile, “these sunrise rooms seem meant for Alaska cedar?  And the rugs should be not old blue, but a soft, mossy blue-green.”

Mrs. Feversham laughed.  “Home industry again!  We don’t go to New York for Alaska cedar.  But you are right; that pale yellow wood would be simply charming with these primrose walls, and it takes a wonderful polish.  That leaves me only the rugs and hangings.”  She turned to go back through the wide doorway, then stopped to say:  “After all, Beatriz, why not see what is to be had in Seattle?  I had rather you selected everything for this suite, since it is to be yours.”

“Mine?” She paused, steadying her voice, then went on with a swift breathlessness.  “But I see, you mean to use when I visit you and Elizabeth.  These rooms, from the first, have been my choice.  But I am afraid I’ve been officious.  I’ve been carried away by all this beautiful architecture and the pleasure of imagining harmonious, expensive furnishings.  I never have fitted a complete house; it’s years since I had a home.  Then, too, you’ve spoiled me by listening to my suggestions.  You’ve made me believe it was one way I could—­well—­cancel obligations.”

Mrs. Feversham raised her hand and, turning it slowly, watched the play of light on the ruby.  “There isn’t a stone like this in America,” she said.  “You don’t know how I’ve coveted it.  But you need not have worried, Beatriz.  I disposed of your note to Frederic.”

“To Mr. Morganstein?” Her voice broke a little; she rocked unsteadily on her feet.  It was as though a great wind had taken her unawares.  Then, “I shall try to pay him as soon as possible,” she said evenly.  “I have the land at Hesperides Vale, you know, and if I do not sell it soon, perhaps he will take it for the debt.”

Mrs. Feversham dropped her hand.  “Beatriz!  Beatriz!” she exclaimed.  “You know there’s an easier way.  Come, it’s time to stop this make-believe.  You know Frederic Morganstein would gladly pay your debts, every one.  You know he is building this villa for you; that he would marry you, now, to-day, if you would say the word.  Yet you hold him at arm’s-length; you are so conservative, so scrupulous about Public