* * * * *
When Isabelle moved to New York for the winter, Vickers took Delia Conry West, and on his return after a few days in the city went up to the Farm, where Miss Betterton and Marian were still staying. He felt relieved to get back once more in the country that was now beginning its quiet preparation for winter. New York had overwhelmed him. And he could not but see that in the city he was something of a problem to his beautiful sister. She would not hear of his going to a hotel, and yet he was in the way. Vickers was not one to make an impression. And one must make an impression of some sort in Isabelle's world. "He's quaint, your brother," one of her friends said. "But he's locked up and the key is lost. Most people won't take the time to hunt for keys or even open doors."
If he had been more the artist, had some reclame from his music or his father's money, he would have fitted in. But a subdued little man with a sandy beard, sunken eyes, and careless clothes,—no, he was queer, but not "interesting"! And Isabelle, in spite of her strong sisterly loyalty, was relieved when she saw him off at the station.
"It's nice to think of you, Vickie, snugged away in the country, going around in your velveteens with a pipe in your mouth. Keep an eye on Molly and don't flirt with Miss Betterton. I shall run up often, and you must come down for the opera when you want to hear some music."
So Vickers betook himself to his seclusion. And when he did run down for the opera, he found himself jostled in a worse jam of Isabelle's occupations than before. Although she had just recovered from her yearly attack of grippe, and felt perpetually tired and exhausted, she kept up with her engagement list, besides going once a week to her boys' club, where Cairy helped her. Seeing her tired, restless face, Vickers asked her why she did it all.
"I should die if I sat back!" she answered irritably. "But I'll go up to the Farm with you for a day or two…. There's the masseuse—you'll find some cigarettes in the drawer—don't forget we dine early."…
When they reached the Farm the next afternoon, little Marian met them in the hall, dressed like a white doll. "How do you do, Mamma?" she said very prettily. "I am so glad to see you." And she held up her face to be kissed. The little girl had thought all day of her mother's coming, but she had not dared to ask the governess to meet her at the station; for "Mamma has not arranged it so." Isabelle looked at her daughter critically, and said in French to the English governess, "Too pale, my darling,—does she take her ride each day?"
Everything about the child's life was perfectly arranged, all thought out, from her baths and her frocks and her meals to the books she read and the friends she should have. But to Vickers, who stood near, it seemed a strange meeting between mother and child.
That evening as Isabelle lay with a new novel before the blazing fire, too listless to read, Vickers remarked:—"A month of this would make you over, sis!"
"A month! I couldn't stand it a week, even with you, Bud!"