"You know what everybody will think, I suppose." Malcourt yawned.
Presently Portlaw began in a babyish-irritated voice: "I've buried the deuce and trey of diamonds, and blocked myself--" "Oh, _shut_ up!" said Malcourt, who was hastily scribbling a letter to Virginia Suydam.
He did not post it, however, until he reached New York, being very forgetful and busy in taking money away from the exasperated Portlaw through the medium of double dummy.

Also he had a girl, a kitten, and other details to look after, and several matters to think over.

So Virginia's letter waited.
* * * * * Virginia waited, too.

She had several headaches to keep inquiring friends at a distance, for her eyes were inclined to redness in those days, and she developed a pronounced taste for the solitude of the chapel and churchly things.
So when at length the letter arrived, Miss Suydam evaded Constance and made for the beach; for it was her natural instinct to be alone with Malcourt, and the instinct unconsciously included even his memory.
Her maid was packing; Constance Palliser's maid was also up to her chin in lingerie, and Constance hovered in the vicinity.

So there was no privacy there, and that was the reason Virginia evaded them, side-stepped Gussie Vetchen at the desk, eluded old Classon in the palm room, and fled like a ghost through the empty corridors as though the deuce were at her heels instead of in her heart.
The heart of Virginia was cutting up.