“What?” demanded Farley sharply. “Well, I guess nobody but the lowest cur would have done it.”
Mrs. Copeland’s brown bungalow was set upon the highest point on her farm, and from her veranda and windows she could view every part of it. The veranda was made to be lived upon; there was a table with books and periodicals; a work-basket lay in a swing seat as though some one had just put it down; there were wall-pockets filled with fresh flowers. Along the veranda rail nasturtiums bloomed luxuriantly.
As Nan waited for an answer to her ring, the lower floor of the house lay plainly in view through the screen door: a large raftered living-room with a broad fireplace and a dining-room beyond. Here at least were comfort and peace. Perhaps Billy Copeland’s wife hadn’t fared so ill after all!
The maid said Mrs. Copeland was out on the farm, and an observation from the veranda discovered her in the barn lot.
Nan had counted on Farley’s presence to ease the shock of the meeting, and she did not wholly relish being sent off alone to meet a woman who might be pardoned for wishing to avoid her. Farley said he would wait in the car, and Nan left him contentedly studying the house and its encompassing landscape.
When Mrs. Copeland saw Nan approaching, she started across the lot to meet her. A handsome collie trotted beside her. She had not yet identified her visitor, and was flinging back an injunction to a workman as she moved toward the gate. She wore a dark skirt, blue waist, and heavy shoes, and a boy’s round felt hat. A pair of shabby tan driving-gloves covered her hands.
“Good-afternoon!” said Nan. “Papa and I were passing, and he thought he’d like to see your place. If you’re busy, please don’t bother.”
“Oh, I’m glad so see you, Miss Farley; I was just coming to the house. My pump works badly and we are planning some changes. I’m glad Mr. Farley is able to be out again.”
She set the pace with a quick, eager step. Several times she turned smilingly toward Nan; the girl saw no trace of hostility. To all appearances Fanny Copeland was a happy, contented woman. The tempests might vent their spite on her, but she would still hold her head high. Nan, little given to humility, experienced suddenly a disturbing sense of her inferiority to this woman whose husband she had allowed to make love to her.
“Yes, I get a great deal of fun out of the farm,” Mrs. Copeland was saying. “I don’t have any time to be lonesome; when there’s nothing else to do, I can fuss around the garden. And now that I’ve taken up poultry there’s more to do than ever!”