“But, my dear Ellen”—Mrs. Deverence raised her eyebrows a trifle—“surely you don’t encourage a person like that to talk so freely with you? Why, no servant at the hotel would dare——”
“No,” said Ellen, this time avoiding Knollys’s eyes. “No servant at the hotel; but Anne’s and Michael’s servant——”
“Still, one can’t take them as an example, can one, dear? Delightful people, of course, but a bit—er—eccentric. Her frocks—you know——”
“This is one of them.” Ellen smoothed it with a sudden tenderness. “I—it has been a very nice frock.”
“Ahem! A very decent chap he is—the husband, I mean,” put in Hawley, evidently feeling things a bit strained. “Writes A-1 books, doesn’t he?”
“It was really too dear of them to lend you this place, wasn’t it?” Sheila came in conscientiously on her husband’s initiative. “Simply a wonderful house!”
“Yes,” agreed Ellen and Knollys simultaneously, “a wonderful house!”
The Deverences were gone. Knollys and Ellen sat on the porch alone. Beside them lay Gladys-Marie’s wreath.
“Ten years,” said Knollys, meditatively. “Ten years—in the hotel. And to-morrow we go back. To clubs and Wall Street!” There was no cynicism in his brief laugh—just an ache, a sort of emptiness.
“Knollys Verplanck”—his wife laid her hands impressively upon his shoulders, and even through the darkness he could feel the warmth in her great dark eyes—“we’re not going back! That’s the only joke—I—oh, those silly city people! Knollys!—Knollys dear, we’re going to have a House. Say we are! I—I don’t want to be just passepartouted. Knollys—couldn’t we—don’t you think we might pretend it’s ten years ago? Don’t you think we might start over and be just plain married people?”