“I suppose that’s the first duty of a wife,” Miriam laughed. “Besides, Louise Bruneau is nothing if not original. All her friends recognize that.” She patted Louise ever so gently on the shoulder.
The modulation of the voice, the grace of the little pat, the composure, the finely-cut nostrils, the slant of the hat!
They chatted, then Louise started the engine, and in a moment the car was zig-zagging up the long hill that lay between them and the lake.
Louise was conquering an unreasonable pang. To herself she was explaining the freemasonry that existed among people of Keble’s and Miss Cread’s world; there was some sort of telepathic pass word, she knew not what. It was going to be the Windrom atmosphere all over again: permeated by exotic verbal trifles. But that was what she had bargained for; the stakes were worth the temporary disadvantage. Walter needn’t, of course, have sent quite such a perfect specimen.
What “stakes”? Well, surely there were objects to live for that outweighed the significance of petty jealousies, petty possessions, the rights of one person in another. She brought the car around to a point from which the lake spread out under them in all the glory of deep emerald water and distant walls of sun-bronzed rock. The cottages and farm buildings grouped themselves beneath, and along the pebbly shore a rich league of grey-black and dark green pine forest linked the buildings and the mountains. Two frantic sheep dogs came barking to meet them.
An exclamation of delight escaped from the travel-weary guest.
“I’m glad you like it,” remarked Louise, relenting.
“It’s superb,” Miriam replied. Again she gave Louise’s shoulder a discreet pat, as the latter began the winding descent. “You very lucky woman!” she commented.
3
Riding, fishing, and hunting for the winter’s supply of game enlivened the autumn months, and when the snow arrived, drifting through the canyons, obliterating all traces of roads and fences, there were snow-shoe and ski-journeys, skating on a swept portion of the lake, and dances before the great fireplace. Self-consciously at first, but soon without being aware of it, Louise reflected the sheen of her companion, and acquired objective glimpses of herself. There had been long discussions in which tastes and opinions had been sifted, and Louise’s speech and cast of thought subtly supervised. Throughout the program Keble made quiet entrances and exits, dimly realizing what was taking place, grateful for, yet a little distrustful of the gradual transformation. It was as though, in an atmosphere of peace, unknown forces were being secretly mobilized. There was a charm for him in the nightly fireside readings and conversations. When he was present they were likely to develop into a monologue of daring theories invented and sustained by Louise,—a Louise who had begun to take some of her girlish extravagances in earnest. In the end Keble found himself, along with Miriam Cread, bringing to bear against Louise’s radicalism the stock counter arguments of his class.