She looked toward the stairway and added, in a low voice:
“And it’s I that’ll be glad to see Miss Nora sittin’ down with one of her own kind—and her what she is, and everybody crazy about her before, and all the fine clothes and visitin’ and travelin’ and all—”
“But she’s very happy, here, isn’t she?” the man asked gently.
“Oh, she’s happy. It’s her that has the trick of happiness, but she’s the lonely days and thinkin’ long’s the weary work. There’s good people here, but none of them talk her own talk, sir. It’d be well enough for a bit in the summer, but winter and summer, in and out—it don’t seem right. If you could have seen how it was in the old days, sir—and now only that daft John and me to do for her, and she so cheerful and never a word of regret or wishin’.”
There was sorrow and pride and great love in the plain old Irish face, and Archibald realized that he was being honored. Ellen was not the woman to talk of her mistress to any chance comer.
There was a step in the upper hall, and the servant vanished into the dining-room, while Archibald went forward to meet a vision in white linen, smooth-haired, immaculate, laughing-eyed.
“Soap and water couldn’t revive my collar,” he said apologetically, “but my hands and face are approximately clean.”
“You’re very, very beautiful,” said the Smiling Lady. “What’s a collar, between gardeners!”
He came around to the matter of neighboring again, while they sat at dinner.
“It’s as new to me as gardening,” he confessed,—“this getting interested in the people who live round about me and having them take an interest—approving or otherwise—in me. I can’t quite make up my mind whether I like it or not. Just at the first jump, I’d say I didn’t. Theoretically it’s a nuisance. Down in New York, I didn’t care a hoot whether the chap in the bachelor quarters across the hall from mine lived or died or drank himself into d-t’s or gave temperance lectures or wore tweeds or pink velvet tights, and I’d have resented his being curious about me. But up here—well, everything’s different. I fairly lap up Peg’s flow of information about the Valley folk and I’m absorbingly interested in the amount of Mrs. Frisbie’s egg money, and in Bill Briggs’ habits and in Ezra Watts’ bad reputation. I’m thirsting to meet Ginsy Shalloway, and I’m Mrs. Neal’s humble admirer. What’s more, I’ve an amazing desire to make myself solid with them all. Queer, isn’t it? I suppose it’s mostly Pegeen—Pegeen and you. You two make a fascinating sort of talisman of human sympathy. Along came gray days and stupid people. You rub your magic ring—and the world’s an interesting place, and living in it is glorious business. Makes a chap feel like humping himself and going shopping for magic rings.”