Sommers was approaching from Blue Grass Avenue; his eyes were turned in the direction of the lake, so that he did not see the women on the steps of the temple until Miss Hitchcock turned and held out her hand. Then he started, perceptibly enough to make Alves's lips tighten once more.
"I have been calling on your wife," Miss Hitchcock explained, talking fast.
"But she doesn't like me, won't ask me to come again."
"We shall be very glad to see you," Alves interposed quickly. "But I make no calls."
Miss Hitchcock declined to sit down, and Sommers accompanied her to the waiting carriage. Alves watched them. Miss Hitchcock seemed to be talking very fast, and her head was turned toward his face.
Miss Hitchcock was answering Sommers's inquiries about Colonel and Mrs. Hitchcock. The latter had died over a year ago, and Colonel Hitchcock had been in poor health.
"He has some bitter disappointments," Miss Hitchcock said gravely. "His useful, honorable, unselfish life is closing sadly. We have travelled a good deal; we have just come back from Algiers. It is good to be back in Chicago!"
"I have noticed that the Chicagoan repeats that formula, no matter how much he roams. He seems to travel merely to experience the bliss of returning to the human factory."
"It isn't a factory to me. It is home," she replied simply.
"So it is to us, now. We are earning our right to stay within its gates."
"Are things—going better?" Miss Hitchcock asked hesitatingly. She scanned the doctor's face, as if to read in the grave lines the record of the year.