"She nearly got it," she said. "But not quite."
"Got what?" asked Desire, still wondering.
"An introduction. Where is Benis? My dear, DON'T LOOK! She is the most determined person."
Miss Campion herself was staring straight ahead. Desire, much amused, endeavored to do the same.
"Surely it is a trifle!" she murmured.
But Miss Campion was preoccupied. "Where can Benis be? John, do you know what is keeping Benis? Oh, here he is," with an exclamation of relief. "Now we can start. Did I hear you say 'trifle,' my dear? There are no trifles in Bainbridge. John, I think we might drive home by the Park."
They drove home by the Park. It was not a long drive, just a dozen or so of quiet streets, sentineled by maples; a factory in a hollow; a church upon a hill; a glimpse of two long rows of prosperous looking business blocks facing each other across an asphalted pavement; a white brick school where children shouted; then quiet streets again, the leisurely rising of a boulevarded slope and—home.
They turned in at a white gate in the centre of a long fence backed by trees. The Spences had built their homestead in days when land was plentiful and, being a liberal-minded race, they had taken of it what they would. Of all the houses in Bainbridge theirs alone was prodigal of space. It stood aloof in its own grounds, its face turned negligently from the street, outside. For the passer-by it had no welcome; it kept itself, its flowers and its charm, for its own people.
Desire said "Oh," as she saw it—long and white, with green shutters and deep verandas and wide, unhurried steps. She had seen many beautiful homes but she had never seen "home" before. The beauty and the peace of it caught the breath in her throat. She was glad that Benis did not speak as he gave her his hand from the car. She was glad for the volubility of Aunt Caroline and for the preoccupation of Dr. John with his engine. She was glad that she and Benis stepped info the cool, dim hall alone. In the dimness she could just see the little, nervous smile upon his lips and the warm and kindly look in his steady eyes.
After that first moment, the picture blurred a little with the bustle of arrival. Aunt Caroline, large and light in her cream dust-coat, seemed everywhere. The dimness fled before her and rooms and stairs and a white-capped maid emerged. The rooms confused Desire, there were so many of them and all with such a strong family likeness of dark furniture and chintz. Aunt Caroline called them by their names and, throwing open their doors, announced them in prideful tones. Desire felt very diffident, they were such exclusive rooms, so old and settled and sure of themselves—and she was so new. They might, she felt, cold-shoulder her entirely. It was touch and go.