3“Hello, dear, how are you?”
She stepped from under the umbrella her chauffeur was holding, nodded her thanks to him and came into the hall.
“I wish this damned rain would stop. I’m beginning to feel like Sadie Thompson.”
She couldn’t have looked less like Sadie. She looked as if she’d just stepped out of an air-conditioned bandbox, ethereally cool and lovely, her beige faille suit fitting her as unwrinkled as an onion skin, the white frills of her blouse crisp and fresh. Her honey-blonde hair was smoothly upswept and her brown eyes were as quietly serene as the lineless sun-tanned face they were part of.
“You look harassed, darling. What is it?”
She smiled faintly, and then her glance took in the raincoat there on the chair. The smile faded.
“—That’s Susan Kent’s . . . is she here n
