The morning being Sunday, the press had no editions in which to herald the Tyler-Millay job (Brandgwyn Heiress—Slaughtered War Hero), with its tailor-made, sob-sister tangents of the damped-out elopement and of Bruce, jilted scion of the socially prominent Calverses. On the other hand, the radio was pleased, and its nation-wide newscasts did a well-browned coverage.
Brandgwyn itself was in no sense pleased.
An air of unbearable expectancy underlay its surface routine which barely managed to run along with a sketchy semblance of normal equilibrium. Small details alone betrayed its true state of nerves—the open salts being poltergeisted into sugar—a dust-cloth absent-mindedly left swaddling a marble bust of Theodosius the Great—such minor things.
Girded in a dress of cool checked cotton f
