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 should she let us know? If our own child can't come home any time she wants to!"

Relieved by Fred's saying he thought Christabel might have telegraphed ahead, she left the telephone to answer Christabel, calling from upstairs.

"Mother! If you are coming upstairs any time—don't make a special trip, but just when you do—would you bring me a bowl of ice?"

It really is getting hotter and hotter, Mrs. Caine thought, running out to the garden to cut roses for the table, pausing to wipe her forehead with the back of her wrist, opening the emergency bottle of olives because Christabel was used to grandeur now, shutting the refrigerator lid on her finger. Only the thought of the ice-cream Fred had brought sustained her. But when it appeared, Christabel said she was dieting, and might she have just a little fruit?

Mrs. Caine agitatedly poked into the refrigerator. One banana, but Christabel didn't like bananas much, and, besides, this really was too black for anything. A cantaloupe. She