“I do not know; she’s very late. She’s given to wandering, but usually she is here before this time.”
‚ÄúI saw her in town this afternoon,‚Äù said Mrs. ¬ÝVanderpool.
‚ÄúZora? In town?‚Äù Miss Smith rose. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll send her to you tomorrow,‚Äù she said quietly. Mrs. ¬ÝVanderpool had hardly reached the Oaks before Miss Smith was driving toward town.
A small cabin on the town‚Äôs ragged fringe was crowded to suffocation. Within arose noisy shouts, loud songs, and raucous laughter; the scraping of a fiddle and whine of an accordion. Liquor began to appear and happy faces grew red-eyed and sodden as the dances whirled. At the edge of the orgy stood Zora, wild-eyed and bewildered, mad with the pain that gripped her heart and hammered in her head, crying in tune with the frenzied music‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúthe End‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe End!‚Äù
Abruptly she recognized a face despite the wreck and ruin of its beauty.
“Bertie!” she cried as she seized the mother of little Emma by the arm.
The woman staggered and offered her glass.
“Drink,” she cried, “drink and forget.”
In a moment Zora sprang forward and seized the burning liquid in both hands. A dozen hands clapped a devil‚Äôs tattoo. A score of voices yelled and laughed. The shriek of the music was drowned beneath the thunder of stamping feet. Men reeled to singing women‚Äôs arms, but above the roar rose the song of the voice of Zora‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe glided to the middle of the room, standing tiptoed with skirts that curled and turned; she threw back her head, raised the liquor to her lips, paused and looked into the face of Miss Smith.