The Red Horseman

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Toad Tarkington first noticed her during the intermission after the first act. His wife, Rita Moravia, had gone to the ladies’ and he was stretching his legs, casually inspecting the audience, when he saw her. Three rows back, four seats in from the other aisle.

She was seated, talking to her male companion, gesturing lightly, now listening to what her friend had to say. Now she glanced at the program, then raised her gaze and spoke casually.

Toad Tarkington stared. In a few seconds he caught himself and turned his back.

How long had it been? Four years? No, five. But it couldn’t be her, not here. Not in Washington, D.C. Could it?

He half-turned and casually glanced at her again.

The hairstyle was different, but it’s her. He would swear to it. Great figure, eyes set wide apart above prominent cheekbones, with a voice and a touch that would excite a mummy — no man ever forgets a woman like that.

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