CHAPTER EIGHTThey came in, George Barrol with a little the air of a deputation. I looked at Rosemary, rather alarmed. Rodman Bishop, in an old seersucker suit with the trouser legs a little shrunk from years of laundering so that his feet looked enormous, went back to the porch door and threw his half-smoked cigar out onto the lawn, and came back, wiping his flushed perspiring face with a large red silk handkerchief. George wiped his forehead too. He was more flustered than hot. And between the two Rosemary stood as cool and lovely and detached as a lily. Only a shadow in the fringed gray depths of her eyes as she looked at me indicated that any of this touched her at all.
Rodman Bishop sat down heavily.
“Jim’s in a tight spot, Grace,” he said.
I nodded.
“I’ve just seen this fellow Par
