Ways at the Hill Farm were simple ways, and there was no grandeur, no display in the quaint, rambling red brick house. All the servants were coloured, and were either elderly men and women who had served "the family" before the war which freed them from slavery, or else young, happy-go-lucky sons and daughters of the old servitors. There were a great many of them about the place, indoors and out, so many that Loveland could hardly tell one face from another, but they were all kindly, dark faces that brightened into glittering grins at sight of the English chauffeur.
Everything was done on a lavish, though far from pretentious, scale, but the ordering of the establishment might mean wealth, or might mean no more than a comfortable competence. The furniture was good, and in the best of taste, but it was almost all antique, brought from England by ancestors of Mrs. Loveland's or Lesley Dearmer's perhaps, in that good time when Chippendale and Sheraton treasures were regarded as ordinary possessions.
In the stables were a couple of beautiful hunters, Lesley's property, for Loveland soon discovered that a true daughter of Kentucky considers it a disgrace to the county for every girl not to be a fearless and accomplished rider. There were two fat old carriage horses, also, and other animals for the farm work which was carried on by a middle-aged married couple. Altogether it was clear that Mrs. Milton's and Cadwallader Hunter's estimate of the ladies' circumstances had been unjust. Mrs. Loveland and her niece were not "teachers taking a holiday while their money lasted." Perhaps the farm and the money were all Mrs. Loveland's; but Lesley had told Val on ship board that she earned enough for self-support by writing stories. Therefore she was not in any case entirely dependent upon her aunt, and it was evident that the girl and the elderly lady were very content in that state of life to which it had pleased God to call them.
It seemed to Val that Lesley was always happy; and because she was happy herself she could not bear to see others sad or unfortunate. Though she asked no questions about her chauffeur's English past, she showed frank interest in his American experiences. She led him on, as they spun through the country side by side, to talk of Bill Willing, of Lillie de Lisle, of Ed Binney, and even of Isidora, the almond-eyed. Of the fire at Alexander the Great's she had read in the papers, and she deigned a few words of praise for Loveland's behaviour. She was curious, also, to hear "what happened afterwards"; and though Val was silent as to Isidora's part in his next move, woman's wit supplied the missing link.
Too delicate-minded to put her suspicions into words, Lesley, nevertheless, contrived tactfully to pluck from Loveland some scanty information concerning Miss Alexander's semi-engagement to the Jewish commercial traveller.
"She'll never marry him," the girl announced authoritatively.
"I wish I could think you were right," said Loveland. "Poor Isidora has a warm, generous heart, and it would be a beastly shame to waste her on the oily creature. But Alexander's hard to beat, once he makes up his mind."
"When I first knew you, it wouldn't have occurred to you that the affairs of a common little person like that might be worth bothering about!" exclaimed Lesley. "But now I believe you're really interested."
"I really am," admitted Val. "I hope that doesn't disgust you?"
"Exactly the other way," Lesley assured him. "But you needn't be anxious. An only daughter, spoiled by her father, is just as 'hard to beat' as the most obstinate and tyrannical old parent. Isidora won't marry the Cohen man—after all that's happened. She won't marry anyone, for a good long time, but bye and bye she will, and then it will be somebody of her own choosing, not her father's."