Farraday fingered his cigarette reflectively.
“I rather think,” he said at last, “that my neighborhood most nearly meets the requirements. I have several hundred acres at Crab's Bay, which belonged to my father, running from the shore halfway to the railroad station. The village itself is growing suburban, but the properties beyond mine are all large, and keep the country open. We are only an hour from the city—hardly more, by automobile.”
“Are there many tin cans?” enquired Stefan, flippantly. “In Michigan I remember them as the chief suburban decoration.”
“Yes?” said Farraday, in his invariably courteous tone, “I've never been there. It is a long way from New York.”
“Touché,” cried Stefan, grinning. “But you would think pessimism justified if you'd ever had my experience of rural life.”
“Was your father really American?” enquired his guest with apparent irrelevance.
“Yes, and a minister.”
“Oh, a minister. I see,” the other replied, quietly.
“Explains it, does it?” beamed Stefan, who was nothing if not quick. They all laughed, and the little duel was ended. Mary took up the broken discussion.
“Is there the slightest chance of our finding anything reasonably cheap in such a neighborhood?” she asked.