Once a
couple of young men had taken off with some of the equipment and
a few of Peter's personal valuables. And then there were the
girls, who often presented their own set of problems. And right
now, Ivy was the mansion's sole no-strings boarder.
"Come on," Ivy said, taking him by the hand once again. "I want
to show you what I've been working on this afternoon."
As they passed, Alice busied herself with a tissue in her apron
pocket. Peter noted the uncertain look on her face; she was all
too familiar with the course that Ivy's stay was taking.
* * *
Dressed in a violet silk camisole, Greta Locke sat on the edge of
their large bed and brushed down her thick chestnut curls. As she
did this she observed herself - her hair, her face, but never the
movement of her hands - in the mirror above her bureau. Though it
was early, she had nonchalantly followed Matthew upstairs to the
bedroom when, after dinner, he had said he was going turning in
early. She had a modest face that she considered robust rather
than pretty. It was satisfactorily oval in shape, though a little
too fleshy in the cheeks. Her nose was sized accordingly, yet if
it had been a little longer, straighter, perhaps she would have
been a real model - but then again, her face had never been her
selling point...
While she scrutinized her complexion, her right hand, as if
guided by its own vision, encountered the crystal lotion
dispenser resting on her bureau.
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