The Handsome Road by Gwen Bristow Page A

or not.
    The carriage stopped before the steps of the Silverwood house. “May I come in?” Denis asked as the coachman opened the door.
    “Don’t be a goose,” Ann retorted. “Of course you may.” They laughed at each other and went up the steps.
    The house had a white sheen in the darkness. It looked like a Greek temple; ten Corinthian columns supported the pediment, and beyond them a great double door led between two pilasters into the main hall. As they went in Ann gave her bonnet and shawl to a servant and led Denis into the parlor. Like all the rooms to the left of the entrance, the parlor had a black marble fireplace, while the rooms on the right had fireplaces of white marble, a conceit characteristic of the romantically-minded Sheramys, who liked variety in all things. The doorknobs and hinges downstairs were silver, but the doorknobs on the second floor were made of Dresden china decorated with little pink and blue flowers. It was a lordly house and a beautiful one, though Denis had always preferred his own—a preference doubtless caused by the fact that he had been born at Ardeith and expected to die there.
    Colonel Sheramy came into the parlor to greet Denis. He was a tall, reticent man in his fifties, with white hair and a grave face. Most of his acquaintances stood somewhat in awe of him. After a few moments he left them alone again, and Denis turned back to Ann. She had spread her great skirts about her on the sofa and was chattering about nothing in particular—how hot the weather was, and how dull it was at home this time of year. “I was so mad,” she went on, “when father made us come back from Saratoga.”
    “Had you meant to stay there all summer?”
    “I’d hoped we were going to. But father hired a new cotton overseer by mail, and said he wasn’t going to trust an unknown to supervise the crop. And he wouldn’t let me stay there by myself.” She looked down, lacing her fingers in her lap. “Denis,” she said.
    “What, honey?”
    The corner of Ann’s mouth flickered, but she spoke demurely. “Maybe I ought to tell you—I behaved very badly at Saratoga.”
    Denis laughed softly. “I doubt it.”
    “Oh yes I did. I got talked about. The ladies called me that fast young person from the South.”
    “My dear,” said Denis, “I’ve observed that when old ladies say a young lady is fast it generally means only that she gets more attention from gentlemen than their daughters do.”
    Ann chuckled. “You’re very understanding. But I did think I should tell you. What have you got?” she asked, for Denis was picking up something from the carpet.
    “This fell out of your pocket.” He held out her smelling-salts, a little bottle in a filigree holder. His gray eyes were on her teasingly. “What’s it for?”
    His candor was disarming. “A stage-prop, Denis,” Ann returned truthfully, and he laughed aloud.
    “I thought so. Ann, you’re immense.”
    “You’re terrifying. I never dare tell you fibs.”
    “You shouldn’t. You’re not very good at fibs.” He bent nearer as though about to kiss her, but she drew back.
    “No. If you’re going to behave like that you’d better go home.”
    “Can’t I stay long enough to say you look enchanting?”
    “Anybody can look enchanting by candlelight. Go on home.”
    Denis regarded her thoughtfully. With her great skirts billowing around her Ann looked like a big flower upside down. She had a luscious figure, small waist, sloping shoulders, high round breasts. The breasts were obviously real; Denis wondered if any men were really deceived when flat-chested girls sewed ruffles inside their chemises. He was not sure if the waves in her hair were natural, but the hair itself was genuinely golden-brown and abundant, and made a silky frame for her cheeks. His eyes went to her face. Doubtless intended by nature to be classic, it was a face as far from Greek serenity as the bayou-hyacinths from asphodel: a straight, disdainful nose, a