2
Late in the afternoon they reached the fields where the men were cutting the scanty crops. Keble on his buckskin mare was in consultation with the superintendent, and on hearing the honk of the car wheeled about, came toward the road, and dismounted.
“Miriam dear, this is my husband. His name is Keble, and he’s frightened to death that you’ll notice, though not call attention to, the muddy spot on the breeches that Mona cleaned this very morning. Keble, this is Miriam Cread, who is coming to stop with us as long as I can force her to stay.”
Keble took a firm white hand in his. The stranger’s smile, the confident poise of her head, the simple little hat whose slant somehow suggested Bond Street or the Rue de la Paix, amazed him. It was as though Louise had brought home a Sargent portrait and said she had bought it at the Witney emporium.
“What I can’t forgive you for, my dear,” he said blandly enough, “is that you should have kept me so long in ignorance of such a charming friend’s existence.” He turned to the guest. “I’ve heard all about Pearl and Amy and Minnie, but next to nothing about you. Don’t you think that’s perverse? My wife is sort of human feuilleton: something new every day.”
He was surprised to hear himself using a term which would certainly have conveyed nothing to Pearl or Amy or Minnie, but he knew the allusion had registered.
“I suppose that’s the first duty of a wife,” Miriam laughed. “Besides, Louise Bruneau is nothing if not original. All her friends recognize that.” She patted Louise ever so gently on the shoulder.
The modulation of the voice, the grace of the little pat, the composure, the finely-cut nostrils, the slant of the hat!
They chatted, then Louise started the engine, and in a moment the car was zig-zagging up the long hill that lay between them and the lake.
Louise was conquering an unreasonable pang. To herself she was explaining the freemasonry that existed among people of Keble’s and Miss Cread’s world; there was some sort of telepathic pass word, she knew not what. It was going to be the Windrom atmosphere all over again: permeated by exotic verbal trifles. But that was what she had bargained for; the stakes were worth the temporary disadvantage. Walter needn’t, of course, have sent quite such a perfect specimen.
What “stakes”? Well, surely there were objects to live for that outweighed the significance of petty jealousies, petty possessions, the rights of one person in another. She brought the car around to a point from which the lake spread out under them in all the glory of deep emerald water and distant walls of sun-bronzed rock. The cottages and farm buildings grouped themselves beneath, and along the pebbly shore a rich league of grey-black and dark green pine forest linked the buildings and the mountains. Two frantic sheep dogs came barking to meet them.
An exclamation of delight escaped from the travel-weary guest.
“I’m glad you like it,” remarked Louise, relenting.
“It’s superb,” Miriam replied. Again she gave Louise’s shoulder a discreet pat, as the latter began the winding descent. “You very lucky woman!” she commented.