Explore "A Front of Brass" by Fred M. White on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The bridge tables in the drawing-room at Grant Lea were breaking up. With a deep sigh of thankfulness Ellen Scarsdale realised that the hour for departure was at hand. Never could she remember a more trying evening. There was an air of unreality about it, too. A few hours before she had been busy in her garden, a happy woman with hardly a cloud on the horizon. She had been thinking how wonderfully nice the flowers looked; the house itself had never appeared to better advantage. And all this was only a matter of some seven hours ago. It seemed almost impossible to believe that she had gone through all this worry and anxiety since then. The world and her place in it had changed entirely. She was filled with a restless anxiety that amounted to terror. Anything to get away home, to save the shame that loomed before her. She was afraid as yet to dwell upon what might happen afterwards--the present was bad enough in all conscience. She gathered up her skirts presently, and began to look about for Hubert Grant. There was still a certain amount of desultory conversation going on; guests were lingering over their farewells.
"Where is my--I mean Mr. Grant?" Ellen whispered to May.