“You didn’t—let the Marksleys have the cow barn?” she faltered.
“No.”
“I’m glad you didn’t. A lower nature than yours would have taken a mean revenge—by letting the dwelling of cattle shame the manor house.”
“It wasn’t that, Judith. They offered me a stiff price for that one set of plans, and I needed the money. But ... seeing anything of mine in that environment of cairngorms would make me feel the way it does to see Eileen running around with that—” He checked himself, and the slow red—Lavinia’s red that betokened impotent rage—crept above the line of his collar.
“When are they going to begin building? The Sandersons, I mean.”
“Immediately. They want me to go over the ground and outline the landscape features. I shall probably be back and forth the rest of the summer. They have asked me to serve in the capacity of supervising architect. We don’t do things that way in Springdale. But I have helped my father—long before I was out of college—so I have all the necessary experience. The only difference is that Mr. Sanderson will pay me a fee and flaunt my name on sign-boards all over the estate. I may as well get used to that part of it. I have always insisted that my father use his name, as contractor, in connection with the actual work. It’s a distinction I never relished. But if I’m going to invade the New York field—”
“I’m so happy. Have you told Sylvia?”
“No, I told the baby.”
“That was dear, Lary.”
Larimore Trench turned to look at her. The blue-grey eyes were suffused and the sweet lips trembled. The man wondered why he had no impulse to kiss so engaging a mouth. It was all spiritual, that strange contact that he was experiencing for the first time in his life. Then, too, kissing had always been associated with his mother, the outward symbol of a bond he knew did not exist.