Mary tried not to find her manner irritating, but could not wholly dispel the impression that Miss Berber habitually patronized her.
She laughed pleasantly.
“I'm afraid I can't claim to have been guided by any subtle theories—I have merely collected together the kind of things I am fond of.”
“Mary decorates with her heart, Felicity, you with your head,” said Constance, setting down her empty tumbler.
“I'm afraid I should find the heart too erratic a guide to art. Knowledge, Mrs. Byrd, knowledge must supplement feeling,” said Felicity, with a gesture of finality.
“Really!” answered Mary, falling back upon her most correct English manner. There was nothing else to say. “She is either cheeky, or a bromide,” she thought.
“Felicity,” exclaimed Constance, “don't adopt your professional manner; you can't take us in. You know you are an outrageous humbug.”
“Dear Connie,” replied the other with the ghost of a smile, “you are always so amusing, and so much more wide awake in the morning than I am.”
Conversation languished for a minute, Constance having embarked on a cake. For some reason which she could not analyze, Mary felt in no great hurry to call Stefan from the barn, should he be there.
Felicity rose. “May we not see your garden, Mrs. Byrd?”