July or not, she could see her breath. A fragile layer of ice had formed on all the puddles, indoors and out, and there was even snow of a sort, grayish and not very wet. The weather seemed to be out of order lately. She sighed. If the phone were working, she would have called the president of the American Meteorological Association, an old school chum of her husband’s, to complain directly. She wished Mrs. Halprin, the housekeeper, would come to work again so she could tell her about the phone and get it repaired properly. Mrs. Halprin was a veritable sorceress when it came to dealing with service people. But Mrs. Halprin seemed to have disappeared. Marion slapped irritably at the coats. Puffs of whitish powder rose from them. The closet doors had fallen off, so the coats, like everything else, had gotten covered with dust. The question was, which one should she wear to Chez Etienne for her luncheon date with Irene Rutledge. She had two furs—a mink and a Russian sable. The sable was extremely warm.
