"Mrs. Carville don't like New York, that's all," he said, simply. "Personally, I shouldn't have bothered. But she's quite right."
"I should think it was better for the children too," said Bill.
He nodded vigorously, packing the tobacco into his pipe.
"Fresh air," said Mac, who slept out on the porch half the year.
"Oh there's plenty of fresh air in Atlantic Avenue," he said. "I had something else in mind." He looked thoughtful, and then his face lighted up with an extremely vivid indignation. It died away again in a moment, but it transfigured him. "Automobiles," he added.
We nodded, understanding him perfectly. We had seen them, in New York as in Brooklyn, careering at maniacal speed among the children at play. Bill, who loved children almost as much as flowers, had come in one day in Lexington Avenue, white and sick, and told us brokenly of something she had seen. So we nodded and he, seeing that we understood, said no more.
"Have you lived in America long?" I inquired.
"Both the kids were born here," he replied. "Yes, that's nearly eight years since we came. You see—but it's a long story. I don't know whether you'd be interested——"
Bill rose.
"Let us go outside," she said. "It's beautifully warm."