"Who? Where?" asked Desire, wondering.

"Eliza Merryweather. Second to the left."

There was another confused impression of curious faces, of one face especially with eager eyes and bobbing grey curls, and then she was caught, as it were, in the swirl of Aunt Caroline and deposited, somewhat breathless, in a car which, providentially, seemed to expect her.

Miss Campion was breathing heavily but her face was calm.

"She nearly got it," she said. "But not quite."

"Got what?" asked Desire, still wondering.

"An introduction. Where is Benis? My dear, DON'T LOOK! She is the most determined person."

Miss Campion herself was staring straight ahead. Desire, much amused, endeavored to do the same.

"Surely it is a trifle!" she murmured.

But Miss Campion was preoccupied. "Where can Benis be? John, do you know what is keeping Benis? Oh, here he is," with an exclamation of relief. "Now we can start. Did I hear you say 'trifle,' my dear? There are no trifles in Bainbridge. John, I think we might drive home by the Park."

They drove home by the Park. It was not a long drive, just a dozen or so of quiet streets, sentineled by maples; a factory in a hollow; a church upon a hill; a glimpse of two long rows of prosperous looking business blocks facing each other across an asphalted pavement; a white brick school where children shouted; then quiet streets again, the leisurely rising of a boulevarded slope and--home.

They turned in at a white gate in the centre of a long fence backed by trees. The Spences had built their homestead in days when land was plentiful and, being a liberal-minded race, they had taken of it what they would. Of all the houses in Bainbridge theirs alone was prodigal of s.p.a.ce. It stood aloof in its own grounds, its face turned negligently from the street, outside. For the pa.s.ser-by it had no welcome; it kept itself, its flowers and its charm, for its own people.

Desire said "Oh," as she saw it--long and white, with green shutters and deep verandas and wide, unhurried steps. She had seen many beautiful homes but she had never seen "home" before. The beauty and the peace of it caught the breath in her throat. She was glad that Benis did not speak as he gave her his hand from the car. She was glad for the volubility of Aunt Caroline and for the preoccupation of Dr.

John with his engine. She was glad that she and Benis stepped info the cool, dim hall alone. In the dimness she could just see the little, nervous smile upon his lips and the warm and kindly look in his steady eyes.

After that first moment, the picture blurred a little with the bustle of arrival. Aunt Caroline, large and light in her cream dust-coat, seemed everywhere. The dimness fled before her and rooms and stairs and a white-capped maid emerged. The rooms confused Desire, there were so many of them and all with such a strong family likeness of dark furniture and chintz. Aunt Caroline called them by their names and, throwing open their doors, announced them in prideful tones. Desire felt very diffident, they were such exclusive rooms, so old and settled and sure of themselves--and she was so new. They might, she felt, cold-shoulder her entirely. It was touch and go.

All but one room!

"This," said her conductor, throwing open a door, "is where Benis does his work. He calls it his den. But you will agree that library sounds better."

Desire went in--with the other rooms she had been content to stand in the doors--and, as she entered, the room seemed to draw round and welcome her. It was deeply and happily familiar--that shallow, rounded window from which one could lean and touch the gra.s.s outside, that dark, old desk with its leather and bra.s.s, that blue bowl on the corner of the mantel-piece, the lazy, yet expectant, chairs; even the beech tree whose light fingers tapped upon the window gla.s.s! It was all part of her life, past or future--somewhere.

"You see," said Aunt Caroline in her character of showman, "we have fireplaces!"

Desire was so used to fireplaces that this did not seem extraordinary and yet, from Aunt Caroline's tone, she knew that it must be, and tried to look impressed.

"They are dirty," went on Aunt Caroline, "but they are worth it. They give atmosphere. If you have a house like this, you have to have fireplaces. That is what I tell my maids when I engage them. So that they cannot grumble afterwards. Fireplaces are dirty, I tell them, but--what are you staring at, my dear?"

"Was I staring? I didn't know. It is just that I seem to know it all."

Aunt Caroline looked wise. "Oh, yes. I know what you mean. Benis explains that curious feeling--some-thing about your right sphere or something being larger than your left, or quicker, I forget which. Not that I can see any sense in it, anyway. Do you mind if I leave you here? I want to see if Olive has made the changes I ordered upstairs."

"Get a hump on!" said a loud, rude voice.

Aunt Caroline jumped.

"Oh, my dear! It's that horrible parrot. Benis insists on keeping it.

Some soldier friend of his left it to him. A really terrible bird. And its language is disgraceful. It doesn't know anything but slang. Not even 'Polly wants a cracker.' You'll hardly believe me, but it says, 'Gimme the eats!' instead."

"Can it!" said the parrot. Aunt Caroline fled.

Desire, to whom a talking bird was a delightful novelty, went over to the large cage where a beautiful green and yellow parrot swung mournfully, head down.

"Pretty Polly," said Desire timidly.

The bird made a chuckling noise in his throat like a derisive goblin.

"What is your name, Polly?"

"Yorick," said Polly unexpectedly. "Alas. Poor Yorick! I knew him well."

"You'd think it knew what I said!" thought Desire with a start. She edged away and once more the welcoming spirit of the room rose up to meet her. She tried first one chair and then another, fingered the leather on their backs and finally settled on the light, straight one in the round window. It was as familiar as the glove upon her hand, and the view from the window--well, the view from the window was partially blocked by the professor under the beech tree, smoking.

Seeing her, he discarded his cigar and came nearer, leaning on the sill of the opened window.

"You haven't got your hat off yet," he said in a discontented tone.

"Aren't you going to stay?"

"May not a lady wear her hat in her own house?"

"Oh, I see. Then I shan't have to b.u.t.ter your fingers?"

"Do you compare me to a stray cat?"

"I never compare you to anything."

Desire wanted terribly to ask why, but an unaccustomed shyness prevented her. Instead she asked if Yorick were really the parrot's name.

"I don't know. But he says it is, so I take his word for it. Do you want to talk about parrots? Because it's not one of my best subjects.

May I change it?"

"If you like."

"Don't say, 'If you like,' say 'Right-o.' I always do when I think of it. Since the war it is expected of one--a sign of this new fraternity, you know, between Englishmen and Colonials. Everyone over there is expected to say 'I guess' for the same reason. Only they don't do it.

How do you like your workroom?"

"Mine?"

"I thought you might not like me to say 'Ours.'"

"Don't be silly!"

"Well, how do you like it, anyway?"

Desire's eyes met his for an instant and then fell quickly. But not before he had seen a mistiness which looked remarkably like--Good heavens, he might have known that she would be tired and upset!

"You have noticed, of course," he went on lightly, "that we have fireplaces? They are very dirty but they provide atmosphere. Almost too much atmosphere sometimes. There are no dampers and when the wind blows the wrong way--Oh, my dear child, do cry if you really feel like it."