That was the first thing I noticed, the perfect understanding between mother and son. His use of her first name was purely affectionate; and later on, when she was in trouble, she became “mother” again. And I know now that his nonsense was largely an act, put on partly to put me at ease.

“All right,” he said to me as we sat down to lunch. “You’re Pat and I’m Tony. You’ll probably call me other things at intervals, but Tony is the name. Age thirty, weight one hundred and eighty, bad golf, good tennis, fair to middling on a horse, amiable disposition, and no strawberry marks.”

It was a long time since I had heard that sort of carefree banter. The day before, tired and tense, it had annoyed me. Now I accepted it for what it was.

“I am Patricia Abbott,” I told him. “Weight one hundred and fifteen, age twenty-five, fair French, poor golf, good tennis, and excellent on a horse.”

“No strawberry marks?” he asked anxiously.

“No strawberry marks.”

Maud gave me the choice of eight guest suites that afternoon, each with its bath and sitting room. I chose the simplest, with a feeling of being in a dream world where such things as imported soaps, new toothbrushes in cellophane wrappers, towels like satin, and soft luxurious beds were taken for granted.

I told Lydia about it that night when, after packing my trunk, I stopped there on the way back up the Hill. She looked rather uneasy.

“Don’t let them spoil you, Pat,” she said. “Too much money can be pretty devastating. What about Tony?”

“He’s all right,” I said evasively.

“Audrey has raved about him all day,” she said, and sighed.

Chapter Four

THAT, AS I HAVE said, was in June of last year. I settled down to a life which began when Nora, one of a half dozen housemaids, brought me my breakfast tray at eight, and might end at night with double solitaire with Maud or a dinner party for thirty.

Little by little I fell into the routine of the establishment. I ceased to jump when at midnight Evans made his first round of the house, his heavy, solid footsteps passing my door, or when I saw his flashlight in the grounds. I think more than anything else those rounds of Evans’s impressed on me the responsibility of wealth and possessions. At nine I went to my office and opened the mail, sending up by a footman Maud’s personal letters. At ten I went to her boudoir, or sometimes to the adjoining roof garden, and we made plans for the day. She was systematic. She would already have seen Mrs. Partridge, the housekeeper, and she used that time with me for Hilda to brush her hair.

By eleven we were through. She would finish dressing and go out. Sometimes she merely made a circuit of the grounds, going over the gardens with old Andy at her elbow. Sometimes she wandered over to the Stoddard place, which was only a half mile away by a footpath. It was called the Farm; and if she had an intimate friend, it was Margery Stoddard.