Now, in the momentary lull at early evening, rays of sunlight fanned through the racing banks of black clouds, illuminating the yellow of a goldfinch darting to his imperiled home. Thirty feet beyond the nest, the silhouette of a woman crossed behind the drawn lace curtains of French doors off the second floor balcony. “Are we late, Ellen?” “It’s going on seven-forty, Mrs. Burdette. You have an hour. The dinner is set for eight-thirty. You are not expected until eight-forty-five, very comfortable time, no need to worry.” Constance Starring Burdette strode across the thick yellow rug of the bedroom tying the sash of her satin robe. She seated herself at the glass-topped dressing table, tilted her head back as she switched on the hairdryer and swiveled around to face her companion. “Seven-forty; are we the same as London?” “We’re five hours ahead of the States, the same as London,” the maid replied. For a few moments, the drone of the machine was the only sound in the room.
