“By Gad!” he whispered, half aloud, “when all is said and done, she knows how to play the game!”

XVIII

It was, perhaps, the knowledge that Dorothea could play the game that enabled Derek, during the rest of the summer, to play it himself.  This he did without flinching, finding strength in the fact that, as time went on, Dorothea seemed to enter into his plans and submit to his judgment.  The first few weeks of pallor and silence having passed, she resumed her accustomed ways, and, as far as he could tell, grew cheerful.  Always having credited her with common-sense, he was pleased now to see her make use of it in a way of which few girls of nineteen would have been capable.  She accepted his surveillance with so much docility that, by the time they returned to town in the autumn he was able to congratulate himself on his success.

On her part, Dorothea carried out his instructions to the letter.  Notwithstanding the opening of the season and the renewal of the usual gayeties, she lived quietly, accepting few invitations, and rarely going into society at all, except under her father’s wing.  On those accidental occasions when Carli Wappinger came within their range of vision, it was only as a distant ship drifts into sight at sea—­to drift silently away again.  If Dorothea perceived him, she gave no sign.  It was clear to Derek that her spurt of rebellion was over, and that her little experience had done her no harm.  The name of Wappinger being tacitly ignored between them, he could only express his pleasure, in the results he had achieved, by an extravagant increase of Dorothea’s allowance, and gifts of inappropriate jewels.  It would have taken a more weatherwise person than he to guess that behind this domestic calm the storm was brewing.

The first intuition of threatening events came to Mrs. Wappinger.

“I’ve seen nothing and heard nothing,” she declared, in her emphatic way, to Diane, “but I know something is going on.”

That was in September.  They sat in the shade of the cool flag-paved pergola at Waterwild, Mrs. Wappinger’s place on Long Island.  The tea-table stood between them, and they lounged in wicker chairs.  Framed by marble pillars, and festooned from above by vines drooping from the roof, there was a view of terraced lawns descending toward the sea.  Between the slightly overcrowded urns and statues there were bright dashes of color, here of dahlias in full bloom, there of reddening garlands of ampelopsis or Virginia creeper.  It was what Mrs. Wappinger called an “off-day,” otherwise she could not have had Diane at Waterwild.  In her loyalty toward the deserted woman she seized those opportunities when Carli was away, and she was certain of having no other guests, “to have the poor thing down for the day, and give her a good meal.”