BY FRIDAY EVENING SHE was ready. Callers had been discouraged, for this was Vicki’s last evening with her family, her last few hours at home.
She could not eat much. After supper she wandered about the house. She would miss the long, hospitable living room, with its fireplace and shining brass andirons at the far end; the long, ancient, gray-velvet couch that eight of her crowd could squeeze onto; the bowls of garden flowers her mother set around; the rows of high casement windows that let in such a curious, dusky, sun-dappled light. She turned, sighing. In the dining room, the faces of her family were sharply outlined against the French windows, which stood open to the twilight. That sharp picture imprinted itself on Vicki’s heart. She went into the hall and started up the stairs.
Vicki
