Grace was correct in her assumption that Ward Trenton had written her in a fit of loneliness but she did not know that in the same hour he had written also to his wife. After a few sentences explaining his presence in St. Louis, the letter to Mrs. Trenton ran:
“It’s almost ridiculous,—the distinctly separate lives we lead. I was just studying the calendar and find that we haven’t met for exactly six months. When I’m at home—if I may so refer to the house in Pittsburgh that fixes my voting place and—pardon me!—doesn’t fix much of anything else—I occasionally find traces of your visits. I must say the servants do pretty well considering that they go their own gait. You’re a wonderful housekeeper at long range! But I’m not kicking. The gods must have their will with us.
“I read of you in the newspapers frequently and judge that you’re living the life that suits you best. I found a copy of your ‘Clues to a New Social Order’ on the new book table here in the club library and reread parts of it. It never ceases to tickle me that a woman of your upbringing, with your line of blue-nosed New England ancestors, should want to pull down the pillars of society. I marvel at you!...
“You’ve asked me now and then not to be afraid to tell you if ever I ran into a woman who interested me particularly. I haven’t had anything to report till now. But the other night I met a girl,—she’s probably just crossing the line into the twenties,—an interesting, provocative young person. She represents in a mild degree the new order of things you’re so mad about; going to live her own life; marriage not in the sketch. She’s a salesgirl in a big shop, but her people have known better days and she went half-way through college. She’s standing with reluctant feet where the brook and river meet, but I’m afraid won’t be satisfied to play in the brook; she’s keen for the deeper waters. She’s as handsome as a goddess. She kissed me very prettily—her own idea I assure you! The remembrance of this incident is not wholly displeasing to me; it was quite spontaneous; filial perhaps....
“Those bonds you have in the Ashawana Water Power Company are all right. I had a look at the plant recently and the dividends are sure....”
Having sealed and addressed the envelopes Trenton laid them side by side on the blotter before him, lighted a cigarette, and then drew out and opened the locket that Grace had noted at The Shack, studying the woman’s face within a little wistfully. Then with a sigh he thrust it into his pocket and went out into the night and tramped the streets, coming at last to the post office where he mailed both letters.
VI
Grace set off with the liveliest expectations to keep her appointment with Miss Reynolds. The house struck her at once as a true expression of the taste and characteristics of its owner. It was severely simple in design and furnishing, but with adequate provision for comfort. Grace had seen pictures of such rooms in magazines and knew that they represented the newest ideas in house decoration. The neutral tint of the walls was an ease to eye and spirit. Ethel had spoken of Miss Reynolds as quaint, an absurd term to apply either to the little woman or any of her belongings. She was very much up to date, even a little ahead of the procession, it seemed to Grace.
“Oh, thank you! I’m glad if it seems nice,” Miss Reynolds replied when Grace praised the house. “All my life I’ve lived in houses where everything was old and the furniture so heavy you had to get a derrick to move it on cleaning day. But I can’t accept praise for anything here. The house was built for a family that moved away from town without occupying it. The young architect who designed it had ideas about how it ought to be fixed up and I turned him loose. There was a music room, so I had to get a grand piano to fit into the alcove made for it. That young man is most advanced and I thought at first he wouldn’t let me have any place to sit down but you see he did allow me a few chairs! Are you freezing? I hate an over-heated house.”
“I’m perfectly comfortable,” said Grace, noting that Miss Reynolds wore the skirt of the blue suit she had sold her, with a plain white waist and a loose collar. Her snow white hair was brushed back loosely from her forehead. Her head was finely modeled and her face, aglow from an afternoon tramp in the November air, still preserved the roundness of youth. The wrinkles perceptible about her eyes and mouth seemed out of place,—only tentative tracings, not the indelible markings of age. She had an odd little way of turning her head to one side when listening, and mistaking this for a sign of deafness Grace had lifted her voice slightly.