On the day that Muriel was winning the tennis tournament, Gene Beavers sat in the library of their home on the outskirts of London, thinking “Oh, to be near the Hudson now that Indian summer is there.”
It was a glorious morning and the lad was tempted to go for a longer stroll than usual when his sister burst in with, “Oh, Gene, something wonderful has happened! You couldn’t guess what, not in a thousand years.”
“Well, since I’m not an Egyptian mummy, there isn’t much use trying,” was the smiling response; but his thought was, “How I wish it were that Muriel Storm has come to England.”
“Mother is overjoyed,” Helen was saying. “It’s the one thing for which she has been longing and yearning ever since we came, and perhaps for that very reason she has wished it into existence. Now can you guess?”
The lad shook his head. “I’m not much good at riddles, Sis,” he confessed. “What is it?”
“An invitation!” was the triumphant announcement as Helen brought the hand which had been back of her to the front and held high a white envelope which bore a crest.
Gene sank down in a comfortable armchair, the interest fading from his face. “Is that all?” he asked. “A stupid bore, I would call it. How you women folk can be so enthusiastic about invitations to receptions and teas is more than I can understand.”
His sister sat on an arm of his chair. “But, Gene,” she said, “you have often wished that you might stroll around in those park-like grounds of the Wainwater estate.”
The lad again assumed an expression of interest. “I’ll agree to that,” he declared. “They are wonderfully alluring. Several times, when I have been out for a stroll, I have gone down the Wainwater Road and have paused at the least-frequented gate in the high hedge to gaze in among the trees, hoping to catch a glimpse of a fawn, and yesterday I saw one drinking from the stream. Such a graceful, beautiful creature, and it looked up at me, not at all afraid.”
“I know that gate,” Helen said. “I stood there a moment only yesterday, but what I especially admired was the picturesque view one gets of the castle-like home which is at least a quarter of a mile back from the road, among the great old trees. I have read about such places, with galleries where ancestral paintings are hung, and I’d just love to see the inside of one.”