Ned Hartley flushed at his mother's philistine candor.
"In this particular room, with its embrasures, dull richness, almost medieval simplicity, I should hardly dare to shine any landlady's cathedral candlesticks," said Mrs. Doan. The humor in her remark was not too plain.
"How charmingly the whole outside approaches into the very house," Miss Lewis put in. "There are no grounds in town quite so appealing. I love dear wild spots in a garden when vegetation admits of them. Where everything grows the year round it is a mistake to be too tidy with Nature."
"Mrs. Grant is an artist—a genius—in her way," the hostess rejoined. "She certainly understands semi-tropical opportunities, whereas some of her neighbors seem only to think of the well-kept lawns of an Eastern city."
"Since the town has grown so large and shockingly up to date, there is very little natural charm left anywhere," said Gay Lewis. "Really one has to have better gowns and more of them out here than in New York or Chicago. I never accepted so many invitations for inside affairs in my life before. I positively have no time for tennis, horseback, or golf. I just submit to the same things we do at home and spend almost every afternoon at bridge, under electric light."
Isabel laughed. "I am threatening to abjure electricity altogether in this particular room—burn only candles and temple lamps. I should like to try the effect of softened light on nerves," she confided. "After sitting in a jungle of the garden, I could come indoors and disregard everything but day-dreams."
"The test would be worth while," Gay agreed. "And really, I should like to have a day-dream myself."
"Absurd!" cried Mrs. Grace. "The room is dark enough already. With nothing but candles it would be worse than a Maeterlinck play. And how could one see cards by a temple lamp?"
"Won't you be seated?" Isabel asked of Ned Hartley, still standing. "You have worked so hard passing tea; do enjoy yourself." A momentous question went unanswered. "See! I am dropping preserved cherries into your cup—true Russian brewing. Delicious!" the hostess promised.
Hartley moved a chair. "May I sit here?" he begged.