CHAPTER XIIThat same afternoon Emily Dillon had opened her bedroom-door cautiously and looked out into the hall, listened for a second and then tiptoed to the front window. Yes, it was as she had thought, Harriet Granniss was going out. Motionless in the shadow of the window-curtain she watched Harriet Granniss go down the front walk, between the flaring rows of portulacas that Harriet had planted without asking Emily if she liked them, to the ornate front gate painted white and swung between two ostentatious white pillars at the opening of the modest hedge, that Harriet had caused to be erected also without consulting her housemate in the matter. One could see at a single glance of Emily Dillon’s refined cameo face that she never would have been the kind of woman to select portulacas for
