“We have a new neighbor,” remarked Mrs. Evans, “on the ten-acre orchard adjoining us on the west.”
“Yes—Mrs. Burke. She has moved in, has she?” inquired the colonel.
“Yesterday. She is a widow from the East—has a daughter in Los Angeles, I believe.”
“She came to see me about a month ago,” said the colonel, “to ask my advice about the purchase of the property. She seemed rather a refined, quiet little body. I must tell Julia—she will want to call on her.”
“I insisted on her taking dinner with us last night,” said Mrs. Evans. “She seems very frail, and was all worn out. Unpacking and settling is trying enough for a robust person, and she seems so delicate that I really don’t see how she stood it all.”
Then the conversation drifted to other topics until the party at the piano broke up and Eva came dancing over to her father.
“Gorgeous popsy!” she cried, seizing him by an arm. “Just one dance before bedtime—if you love me, just one!”
Colonel Pennington rose from his chair, laughing.
“I know your one dance, you little fraud—five fox-trots, three one-steps, and a waltz.”
With his arms about each other they started for the ballroom—really a big play room, which adjoined the garage. Behind them, laughing and talking, came the two older women, the two sons, and Grace Evans. They would dance for an hour and then go to bed, for they rose early and were in the saddle before sunrise, living their happy, care-free life far from the strife and squalor of the big cities, and yet with more of the comforts and luxuries than most city dwellers ever achieve.