The prophecy proved more than true, for with Dr. Ebbett as a guide, Farquaharson gratified that avid interest which every sincere writer must feel for explorations into new fields of thought.
One evening the two sat alone on the terrace in the communion of lighted cigars and creature comfort long after their host and hostess had gone to their beds, and Ebbett said thoughtfully, and without introduction:
"It seems to have worked out. And God knows I'm glad, because I had my misgivings."
"What has worked out?" inquired the younger man and the neurologist jerked his head toward the house.
"This marriage," he said. "When I came to the wedding, I could not escape a heavy portent of danger. There was the difference in age to start with and it was heightened by Eben's solemn and grandiose tendencies. His nature had too much shadow—not enough sunlight. The girl on the other hand had a vitality which was supernormal."
He paused and Stuart Farquaharson, restrained by a flood of personal reminiscence, said nothing. Finally the doctor went on:
"But there was more than that. I'm a Massachusetts man myself, but Eben is—or was—in type, too damned much the New Englander."
Stuart smiled to himself, but his prompting question came in the tone of commonplace.
"Just what does that mean to you, Doctor—too much the New Englander?"