“Why be so unoriginal?” queried Barney amiably. “Anybody could call me a pup. Why not think of something worthy of the Stirlings? Besides, I’m not a pup. I’m really quite a middle-aged dog. Thirty-five, if you’re interested in knowing.”
Uncle Benjamin remembered just in time that Valancy was dead. He turned his back on Barney.
Valancy was happy—gloriously and entirely so. She seemed to be living in a wonderful house of life and every day opened a new, mysterious room. It was in a world which had nothing in common with the one she had left behind—a world where time was not—which was young with immortal youth—where there was neither past nor future but only the present. She surrendered herself utterly to the charm of it.
The absolute freedom of it all was unbelievable. They could do exactly as they liked. No Mrs. Grundy. No traditions. No relatives. Or in-laws. “Peace, perfect peace, with loved ones far away,” as Barney quoted shamelessly.
Valancy had gone home once and got her cushions. And Cousin Georgiana had given her one of her famous candlewick spreads of most elaborate design. “For your spare-room bed, dear,” she said.
“But I haven’t got any spare-room,” said Valancy.
Cousin Georgiana looked horrified. A house without a spare-room was monstrous to her.
“But it’s a lovely spread,” said Valancy, with a kiss, “and I’m so glad to have it. I’ll put it on my own bed. Barney’s old patch-work quilt is getting ragged.”
“I don’t see how you can be contented to live up back,” sighed Cousin Georgiana. “It’s so out of the world.”
“Contented!” Valancy laughed. What was the use of trying to explain to Cousin Georgiana. “It is,” she agreed, “most gloriously and entirely out of the world.”