“No?” Knollys looked mildly undisturbed. “Then why not take a house some place? Really, Ellen, this—this strikes me as very pleasant, this house of Michael’s; all the room, you know, and no liveries forever underfoot. Even this—er—Marie person’s a relief. I’ve been Sir-ed now for over ten years. Do you know it is ten years since we went to live at Marble Court, Ellen?”
“We were married ten years ago next Sunday,” Ellen’s great black eyes were softer than usual, “and we went to live at the hotel directly we came back from our honeymoon. Yes, it is almost ten years, Knollys. But I’m quite contented; aren’t you? We should never be as comfortable in a house as we have been at Marble Court, I am sure. A house is such a care.”
“I suppose it is.” Knollys smothered his sigh—it was ten years since he had remembered to sigh for a house. “Too much trouble, and all that.”
“Yes,” said Ellen, firmly. “And with all I have to do—and next year I’m up for the Four-in-Hand Club—oh, it’s not to be thought of, of course. No doubt you were only joking, Nollsie——” yet she looked at him a little anxiously; for in spite of the ten years, she was more than very fond of him.
“Joking?” When he let his gaze fall, in that absent-minded way, it suddenly occurred to her that he was almost forty. That slight silvering of the hair about his temples (which secretly pleased her, as an aristocratic touch) took on a hint of new significance. “Joking? Yes, I suppose I was, my dear. I suppose I was. Yet”—his voice grew unwontedly wistful—“it would have been nice if I hadn’t been, wouldn’t it? If our house hadn’t been just a joke. Anne and Michael——”
“Anne and Michael are the two most erratic people one knows,” put in Ellen, somewhat shortly. “As a criterion, they aren’t to be taken seriously. They hide themselves here in the woods in order that Michael may write books—— Oh, they’re good books, I admit that (as Knollys started to interrupt)—but what Anne does with herself while he’s writing them I can’t imagine. A week here is very nice; but a lifetime!” Mrs. Verplanck’s slender hands went up in expressive wonderment.
“That—er—Marie girl said the winters were all right,” reminded Knollys, tentatively; “she said——”
“My dear——” Mrs. Verplanck regarded her husband with the nearest disapproval she could turn upon him. “And what if she did? Do you think she knows—what would be all right for you and me? After all, you are Knollys Verplanck, of Wall Street and Marble Court. This girl—this Marie may be perfectly conscientious, perfectly respectable; but she is nothing but a plain person, my dear Knollys, merely a maid, is she not?” And with reassured composure Mrs. Verplanck rang for her.
“What are you doing?”
Two days later, and Mr. Verplanck was squinting his glasses for a nearer view of Gladys-Marie’s trim stooping figure. The stoop was over a bed of strawberries, near which Marmaduke sniffed about for catnip, guileless and very, very yellow in the morning sun.