Mary flushed again. "Why will you spoil everything by putting it like that?"

He stopped and patted her cheek teasingly.

"It's me they admire, Mary, the great artist, creator of the famous Danae," and he skipped again, impishly.

Mary was obliged to laugh. "You exasperating creature!" she said, and went to bed, while he ran up to the studio to pull out the folding easel and sketching-box of his old Brittany days.

III

When on the following Sunday morning Farraday drove up to the house, Mary was delighted to find Constance Elliot in the tonneau.

"Theodore has begun golfing again, now that the snow has gone," she greeted her, "so that I am a gra.s.s widow on holidays as well as all the week."

"Why don't you learn to play, too?" Mary asked, as they settled themselves, Stefan sitting in front with Farraday, who was driving.

"Oh, for your English feet, my dear!" sighed Constance. "They are bigger than mine--I dare say so, as I wear fours--but you can walk on them.

I was brought up to be vain of my extremities, and have worn two-inch heels too long to be good for more than a mile. The links would kill me.

Besides," she sighed again prettily, "dear Theodore is so much happier without me."

"How can you, Constance!" objected Mary.

"Yes, my dear," went on the other, her beautiful little hands, which she seldom gloved, playing with the inevitable string of jade, "the result of modern specialization. Theodore is a darling, and in theory a Suffragist, but he has practised the matrimonial division of labor so long that he does not know what to do with the woman out of the home."

"This is Queensborough Bridge," she pointed out in a few minutes, as they sped up a huge iron-braced incline. "It looks like eight pepper-castors on a grid, surmounted by bayonets, but it is very convenient."

Mary laughed. Constance's flow of small talk always put her in good spirits. She looked about her with interest as the car emerged from the bridge into a strange waste land of automobile factories, new stone-faced business buildings, and tumbledown wooden cottages. The houses, in their disarray, lay as if cast like seeds from some t.i.tanic hand, to fall, wither or sprout as they listed, regardless of plan. The bridge seemed to divide a settled civilization from pioneer country, and as they left the factories behind and emerged into fields dotted with advertis.e.m.e.nts and wooden shacks Mary was reminded of stories she had read of the far West, or of Australia. Stefan leant back from the front seat, and waved at the view.

"Behold the tin can," he cried, "emblem of American civilization!" She saw that he was right; the fields on either side were dotted with tins, bottles, and other husks of dinners past and gone. Gradually, however, this stage was left behind: they began to pa.s.s through villages of pleasant wooden houses painted white or cream, with green shutters, or groups of red-tiled stucco dwellings surrounded by gardens in the English manner. Soon these, too, were left, and real country appeared, prettily wooded, in which low-roofed homesteads clung timidly to the roadside as if in search of company.

"What dear little houses!" Mary exclaimed.

"Yes," said Constance, "that is the Long Island farmhouse type, as good architecturally as anything America has produced, but abandoned in favor of Oriental bungalows, Italian palaces and French chateaux."

"I should adore a little house like one of those."

"Wait till you see Mr. Farraday's cottage; it's a lamb, and his home like it, only bigger. What can one call an augmented lamb? I can only think of sheep, which doesn't sound well."

"I'm afraid we should say it was 'twee' in England," Mary smiled, "which sounds worse."

"Yes, I'd rather my house were a sheep than a 'twee,' because I do at least know that a sheep is useful, and I'm sure a 'twee' can't be."

"It's not a noun, Constance, but an adjective, meaning sweet,"

translated Mary, laughing. She loved Constance's nonsense because it was never more than that. Stefan's absurdities were always personal and, often, not without a hidden sting.

"Well," Constance went on, "you must be particularly 'twee' then, to James' mother, who is a Quaker from Philadelphia, and an American gentlewoman of the old school. His father was a New Englander, and took his pleasures sadly, as I tell James he does; but his mother is as warm as a dear little toast, and as pleasant--well--as the dinner bell."

"What culinary similes, Constance!"

"My dear, from sheep to mutton is only a step, and I'm so hungry I can think only in terms of a menu. And that," she prattled on, "reminds me of Mr. McEwan, whose face is the shape of a mutton chop. He is sure to be there, for he spends half his time with James. Do you like him?"

"Yes, I do," said Mary; "increasingly."

"He's one of the best of souls. Have you heard his story?"

"No, has he one?"

"Indeed, yes," replied Constance. "The poor creature, who, by the way, adores you, is a victim of Quixotism. When he first came to New York he married a young girl who lived in his boarding-house and was in trouble by another man. Mac found her trying to commit suicide, and, as the other man had disappeared, married her to keep her from it. She was pretty, I believe, and I think he was fond of her because of her terrible helplessness. The first baby died, luckily, but when his own was born a year or two later the poor girl was desperately ill, and lost most of what little mind she possessed. She developed two manias--the common spendthrift one, and the conviction that he was trying to divorce her. That was ten years ago. He has to keep her at sanitariums with a companion to check her extravagance, and he pays her weekly visits to rea.s.sure her as to the divorce. She costs him nearly all he makes, in doctors' bills and so forth--he never spends a penny on himself, except for a cheap trip to Scotland once a year. Yet, with it all, he is one of the most cheerful souls alive."

"Poor fellow!" said Mary. "What about the child?"

"He's alive, but she takes very little notice of him. He spends most of his time with Mrs. Farraday, who is a saint. James, poor man, adores children, and is glad to have him."

"Why hasn't Mr. Farraday married, I wonder?" Mary murmured under the covering purr of the car.

"Oh, what a waste," groaned Constance. "An ideal husband thrown away!

n.o.body knows, my dear. I think he was. .h.i.t very hard years ago, and never got over it. He won't say, but I tell him if I weren't ten years older, and Theodore in evidence, I should marry him myself out of hand."

"I like him tremendously, but I don't think I should ever have felt attracted in that way," said Mary, who was much too natural a woman not to be interested in matrimonial speculations.

"That's because you are two of a kind, simple and serious," nodded Constance. "I could have adored him."

They had been speeding along a country lane between tall oaks, and, breasting a hill, suddenly came upon the sea, half landlocked by curving bays and little promontories. Beyond these, on the horizon, the coast of Connecticut was softly visible. Mary breathed in great draughts of salt-tanged air.

"Oh, how good!" she exclaimed.

"Here we are," cried Constance, as the machine swung past white posts into a wooded drive, which curved and curved again, losing and finding glimpses of the sea. No buds were out, but each twig bulged with n.o.bbins of new life; and the ground, brown still, had the swept and garnished look which the March winds leave behind for the tempting of Spring.

Persephone had not risen, but the earth listened for her step, and the air held the high purified quality that presages her coming.

"Lovely, lovely," breathed Mary, her eyes and cheeks glowing.

The car stopped under a porte cochere, before a long brown house of heavy clapboards, with shingled roof and green blinds. Farraday jumped down and helped Mary out, and the front door opened to reveal the shining grin of McEwan, poised above the gray head of a little lady who advanced with outstretched hand to greet them.

"My mother--Mrs. Byrd," Farraday introduced.

"I am very pleased to meet thee. My son has told me so much about thee and thy husband. Thee must make thyself at home here," beamed the little lady, with one of the most engaging smiles Mary had ever beheld.

Stefan was introduced in his turn, and made his best continental bow. He liked old ladies, who almost invariably adored him. McEwan greeted him with a "h.e.l.lo," and shook hands warmly with the two women. They all moved into the hall, Mary under the wing of Mrs. Farraday, who presently took her upstairs to a bedroom.

"Thee must rest here before dinner," said she, smoothing with a tiny hand the crocheted bedspread. "Ring this bell if there is anything thee wants. Shall I send Mr. Byrd up to thee?"

"Indeed, I'm not a bit tired," said Mary, who had never felt better.

"All the same I would rest a little if I were thee," Mrs. Farraday nodded wisely. Mary was fascinated by her grammar, never having met a Quaker before. The little lady, who barely reached her guest's shoulder, had such an air of mingled sweetness and dignity as to make Mary feel she must instinctively yield to her slightest wish. Obediently she lay down, and Mrs. Farraday covered her feet.