“With a hat?” The query was innocent.
He smiled.
“Quite probably,” he said. “A difference in generations, Margo.”
She hesitated a moment. She said, “Only that? Because—in most places—that is—”
“More sophisticated places,” he said. “If we have to use that word. The wearing of summer hats—I don’t mean sun hats—”
“We mean the same thing,” she said. “Little—little round hats, with flowers.”
“Yes,” he said. “At country clubs. On beaches and the like. Not many any more. A difference in traditions, of course. Something one finds in places like North Wellwood. A matter of—standards.” He ground his cigarette out. “Probably,” he said, “I sound stuffy to you. I find a good deal to be said for certain—standards.”
“Oh,” she said. “Of course. It’s only a matter of—what is the word, Paul?”
“Mores?”
“Of course,” she said. “In Maryland—but I suppose the attitudes are much the same. Only the ways of showing them—” She let it trail off. “The cute little thing with red hair?”
“The—? Oh—a Miss Cameron. Lives at the old Adams place with another girl—a Mrs. Wilkins. They rent the place. I believe Miss Cameron has a position of some sort in the city. Commutes. Mrs. Wilkins’s husband is in the Navy, I understand.”
“She wasn’t at the party,” Margo said. “At least—of course, I met so many people I’d never met before—”
“She got there late,” Paul Craig said. “Drove up just as we were leaving. With two men.”
“Oh,” Margo said. “The very good-looking blonde? In a white piqué dress? With the red summer necklace—a Florida sort of necklace? One of the men was tall and had black hair and the other—”
Craig’s long face showed rather more amusement than was common to it. He said he gathered she had noticed them. He said that yes, the very good-looking blonde was Mrs. Wilkins.
“Mrs. Wilkins,” she repeated. “The Adams place.” She nodded her head briefly. “Just getting them straightened out,” she said. “One more—the red-faced man, rather stocky and—”
But she stopped because, as was evident from his face, her husband was thinking of something else—of, she gathered, something rather unpleasant. He had not heard her words, but now he seemed to hear her silence.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Speaking of Mrs. Wilkins reminded me—I’ve decided I’ll have to let Joe Parks go, Margo. He’s proved not to be—trustworthy.”
She raised her eyebrows. “But hasn’t he worked here for years and—”
“Yes,” he said, before she finished. “I thought him quite reliable. It seems I was wrong.” She waited. “Nothing to bother you with,” he said. He stood up. “No use putting it off,” he said, and walked out of the breakfast room. She heard the slight click as he pressed a button in the base of the intercommunicating telephone. “Mrs. Parks?” he said. “Have Joe come up to the house, please.” He waited a moment. “Yes,” he said. “At once, Mrs. Parks.”
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