What were exquisite and expensive gowns for, if not that?
It was twilight on this particular June night when she was ready to go downstairs, and she tarried a while on the long porch.

The evening star, so lonely and radiant, so cold and passionless in the dusky blue, had become an object she waited for and watched, the same as she had come to love the dreaming, murmuring melody of the waterfall.

She lingered there.

What had the sights and sounds and smells of this wild canyon come to mean to her?
She could not say.

But they had changed her immeasurably.
Her soft slippers made no sound on the porch, and as she turned the corner of the house, where shadows hovered thick, she heard Lee Stanton's voice: "But, Flo, you loved me before Kilbourne came." The content, the pathos, of his voice chained Carley to the spot.