Martie took her share of the duties of hospitality as if in an oppressive dream.  Rodney sat beside her, and Rose on his other side.  To an outsider Martie might have seemed her chattering self, but she knew—­and Sally knew—­that the knife was in her heart.  She said good-night to Rodney brightly, and kissed Rose.  Rodney was to take Rose home because, as she explained to Martie in an aside, it was almost on his way, and it seemed a shame to take Dr. Tate so far.

“I’ve been scolding Rod terribly; those boys had highballs or something before they came here,” Rose said, puckering her lips and shaking her head as she carefully pinned a scarf over her pretty hair.  “So silly!  That’s what we were talking about on the stairs.”

She tripped away on Rodney’s arm.  Alvah, complaining of a splitting head, went off alone.  Somehow the others filtered away; Angela Baxter, who was to spend the night with Lydia, piled the last of the dishes with Lydia in the kitchen.  Sally, silent and yawning, sank into an armchair by the dying fire.  Martie, watching the lanterns, and hearing the voices die away after the last slamming of the gate, stood on the dark porch staring into the night.  The trees scarcely showed against a heavy sky, a restless wind tossed their uppermost branches; a few drops of rain fell on a little gust of air.  The night was damp and heavy; it pressed upon the village almost like a soft, smothering weight.  Martie felt as if she could hear the world breathe.

With miserable, dry eyes, she looked up at the enveloping blackness; drops of rain on her burning face, a chill shaking her whole body in the thin gown.  Martie wanted to live no longer; she longed to press somehow into that great silent space, to cool her burning head and throbbing heart in those immeasurable distances on distances of dark.  She did not want to go back into the dreadful house, where the chairs were pushed about, and the table a wreck of wilted flowers and crumbs, where the air was still laden with the odour of coffee and cigarettes.  She did not want to reclaim her own shamed and helpless little entity after this moment of escape.

Her own pain and mortification—­ah, she could have borne those.  But to have Lydia and Sally and Len and all Monroe sorry for her ...

Martie did not sleep that night.  She tossed in a restless agony of remembering, and the pitiable party seemed a life-failure, as she lay thinking of it in the dark, a colossal blunder never to be obliterated.  They were unlucky—­the Monroes.  They never could do things like other people.

Early in the cold dawn she heard the quiet slop and spatter of rain.  Thank God there could be no picnic to-day!  Exhausted, she slept.

CHAPTER VI

Whatever Lydia, her mother, and Sally agreed between themselves the next day they never told, but there was a conspiracy immediately on foot.  Little was said of the party, and nothing of Rodney Parker, for many days.  And if Martie in her fever of hurt pride was not openly grateful, at least they knew her benefited by the silence.  Rose had no such compunction.