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his back jogged her memory. Then she realized his shirt was the same overall blue color Claudine’s anonymous companion had been wearing yesterday.
    Fan had noticed, too. “I’ll bet you a nickel that’s the fellow we saw with Claudine Parlett yesterday,” she hissed, casting a wary eye in the direction of the workshop.
    Holly poured hot water from the teakettle onto the detergent in the dishpan and sneezed as the bubbles got up her nose. “Gee, that’s tough,” she said when she could talk.
    “What do you mean?”
    “Two single people taking an afternoon stroll together doesn’t make much of a story, does it?”
    “Huh! If that’s all they were up to, why couldn’t they stroll closer to home? Anyway, how do we know Neill’s single? He could have wives all over Canada.”
    Holly sneezed again. “What fun for him. Them, too, no doubt. Fan, if you intend to get that wood today, you’d better get hopping.”
    She didn’t honestly care whether Fan pulled off another successful raid or if Sam Neill had committed polygamy from sea to shining sea. She only wanted the house to herself. If Howe Hill was to be made even halfway presentable before Geoffrey Cawne arrived, there was no time to be wasted on gossip.

Chapter 5
    G ETTING HOWE HILL IN order for a party was an uphill fight. Holly swept and dusted, scrubbed and scoured. She conquered the logistics of turning humble fricasseed fowl into glamorous coq au vin, and even managed to bake an apple pie in Fan’s unpredictable Dutch oven.
    When the two front rooms were as clean as she could get them, Holly went out and picked an armload of the scraggly field asters that were all Howe Hill had to offer by way of flowers, except for the goldenrod she didn’t dare bring in because of Roger’s allergies. Eked out with branches of maple leaves that had begun to show their fall colors, the arrangements wouldn’t look too bad by lamplight.
    Maybe she wouldn’t, either. With the house and the dinner under reasonable control, Holly lugged hot water up to her bedroom, managed a sponge bath out of a chipped enamel basin, then went to work on her face, using every professional trick she’d ever learned. The result was only fair, so she put on the brightest dress she owned, to call attention away from the damaged areas.
    At least Fan was impressed. When she got home from her lumber raid and saw what Holly’d accomplished, she rushed to clean up and change into one of her long-unworn Westchester gowns. The two women went downstairs in grand style, just in time to greet Cawne, who arrived on the dot in great spirits.
    “This is an unexpected treat. Who’d have thought I’d be spending my evening with a charming New York hostess and a famous fashion model instead of moaning over a pile of so-called poems written by future oil-drillers and potato farmers? Would it be cheeky of me to compliment you on that ravishing—should I call it a creation, Miss Howe?”
    “Call it anything you like, and please call me Holly. How did you know I’d been a model?”
    “I recognized you from your photographs, of course. Surely you don’t think I confine my reading exclusively to the Canadian poets? Are you here on assignment?”
    “Hardly.” Holly’s hands went up to her cheeks. Was he trying to be kind, or making subtle fun of her? “I’m hiding out till I’m fit to be seen again, if ever,” she said bluntly.
    “I keep telling Holly the scars aren’t half so gruesome as she thinks they are.” Fan did have a knack for choosing her words.
    “Scars?” Cawne made a little business of adjusting his glasses and tilting his head to peer closer at Holly’s face. “Oh, yes, now I see. One just has to squint a bit. I do understand that in your profession even a minor blemish could seem like a catastrophe. Were you in an accident?”
    Either her camouflage job was better than she’d thought or the professor needed his glasses changed. In any case, his cool academic interest was a