The Happy Man

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The Happy Man

by Ralph Henry Barbour

A Novelette by the Author of “Lady Laughter,” “The Harbor of Love,” etc.

Chapter 1

I

A MAN and a dog trudged along a country road. On either side, beyond gray stone walls, meadows stretched gently upward to meet a warm blue sky. Afar a mowing-machine moved slowly against the horizon, and the clatter of its blades seemed to intensify the heat, like the midsummer rasping of a locust. All about was the fragrance of clover, of red clover knee-deep in the ripe meadows, of alsike clover hugging the lichened walls, of white clover, shy and lowly, peering from the wild tangle along the way. Milkweed was adding pale mauve shadows to its delicate green; self-heal bravely defied the dust with purple blooms, and up the walls the bindweed was shooting its green arrows and tinkling its triumph on pinky bells. It was June in New England.

The man was lean and well-conditioned, in height somewhat over the average, in years somewhat under thirty. He had a good-looking, tanned face, a pair of merry, red-brown eyes, and a mouth which, unhidden by a closely-cropped mustache, was oddly at variance with the eyes, being straight and firm and serious. He was dressed for the road: gray flannel Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers, puttees, stout tan shoes, and a light cloth cap pushed to the back of his head. There was a pack between his shoulders, a pipe between his teeth, and a stick in one brown hand.

The dog, who all the morning had padded along with his nose at the man's heels, was white—save for the dust that had settled on him—with occasional patches of fawn. He was frankly a mongrel, long of muzzle and leg, with a bullet-shaped head and a heavy tail, which, in spite of the short hair on the rest of the body, showed a disposition to feather. He possessed one good ear and the scant remains of another. For the rest, he seemed serious-minded and contemplative, and had evidently lived long enough to have discovered the vanity of many things. Not for him the wild scurry after elusive chipmunks, not for him the idle, exhaustive excursion into woods and fields. Mysterious rustlings beside the road produced in him no agitation. Steadily, somnolently, with drooping tail and half-closed eyes, he plodded along after the man, his dust-covered muzzle just escaping the dust-covered heels.

Over the brow of a little rise appeared a buggy, drawn by a nodding, gray horse and containing a man in a wide straw hat. He was a wearied, discouraged-looking man in the forties, with sun-bleached whiskers and watery blue eyes.

“Good morning,” greeted the man on foot, and the gray horse stopped of his own volition. “A fine day, sir.”

The man in the buggy looked about him, as though unwilling to hazard an opinion without first fully informing himself of the facts. At last—

“Pretty hot,” he objected.

“It is warm,” the other agreed cheerfully. “Do you live about here?”

He had a deeply mellow voice, a pleasant voice, and he spoke as though the possession of it—or of any voice—was something to be glad of. And as he spoke a smile hovered about his mouth and in and out of his eyes, and the farmer, who had made his first reply with the hostile suspicion of the New Englander accosted by a stranger, relaxed mentally and physically. He raised a thumb in the direction of his shoulder. “About a mile or so back,” he answered.

“Then, perhaps you can help me. You see”—the traveler seemed then to take the other into his confidence with a glance and a smile—“I am looking for a house.”

“A house?” The farmer digested it slowly. At last, “To live in?” he asked.

“And die in,” responded the traveler gaily.

The other shook his head slowly. “There ain't any houses for sale around here just now,” he said. “Nor none for rent, neither. There was a place2”

“Perhaps I should explain that it is not just any house that I am looking for, but a—a particular house. I thought that perhaps you might have come across it, might be able to direct me to it.”

The farmer looked puzzled. “Who lives in it?” he asked.

The traveler spread his hands. “I don't know. Perhaps it is unoccupied. It is a small house, white, with green blinds. It stands a little way back from the road, and looks with friendly windows over a hedge. Beside the path there are, I think—” the traveler half closed his eyes, then nodded reassuringly: “Yes, there are flower-beds bordered with box; and at one side there is a garden, a sunny, tangled garden of old-fashioned flowers; heliotrope and gilly-flowers and bleeding-heart and sweet alyssum and many others. It is filled with the song of birds and the drone of bees. And—I would call your especial attention to this—there is a dove-cot with honeysuckle clambering around it. It is called2”

“A dove caught?” interrupted the other.

“A dove-cot,” corrected the other gently. “C, o, t; meaning2”

“A pigeon-house, likely.”

“Quite likely. Can you direct me to it?”

The farmer shook his head, observing the traveler sideways with suspicious gaze. “There ain't any such place around these parts,” he declared emphatically. “Maybe at Alderbury2”

“Alderbury?” mused the other, savoring the word. “Alderbury? Yes, that has a pleasant sound. And how far is Alderbury?”

“About four miles, I guess. There's places there with gardens. Didn't they give you any address?”

“No, and I have been seeking it many years.”

The farmer gathered up his reins, looking hard and mistrustfully at the man in the road. “Well,” he muttered, “I hope you find it. When you do, though, I guess them friendly windows'll have bars on 'em! Get ap!”

“I forgot to tell you,” said the other hopefully, as the old horse jogged resignedly on, “that it is called 'Heart's Content.'”

There was no answer. The man in the buggy seemed anxious to be gone. The traveler watched the receding vehicle in silence for a min- ute as it creaked on its way. Then he filled his pipe, lighted it, and glanced at his watch. It lacked a few minutes of eleven. After that he turned to the dog, who, seated at the edge of the road with a pink tongue much in evidence, was observing him gravely.

“Alderbury,” said the man reflectively, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air. The dog thudded the dust with his tail.

“Alderbury?” repeated the man questioningly. “Yes, it has a pleasant sound, a—a suggestive sound. It suggests—h'm—yes, it suggests luncheon.” The dog's tail thumped harder. “Ah, that interests you, does it, Old Sobersides? Then, forward, my brave comrade, to Alderbury—and 'Heart's Content'!”

With a flourish of his stick, and whistling a tune between the teeth that held the pipe, the man took up his journey, and the dog, trotting to his place again, plodded along behind.

Chapter 2

II

“I haven't the slightest idea of the time,” remarked Mrs. Vernon, pausing with buffer in hand to examine the effect of her labors on five pink finger-nails. She had very pretty hands, knew it, and was proud of it, just as she was proud of the fact that at forty-three her hair held no tell-tale strands of white, that her figure was still young and graceful, and that, in short, she was scarcely less attractive than at the age of the girl of twenty who, stretched at length in the willow across the porch, was idly glancing at the watch on her wrist.

“It is twenty-two minutes past twelve,” said Beryl Vernon. She slowly dropped the magazine she had been reading in her lap, and watched her mother as, flanked by bowls and jars and all the paraphernalia of the manicure, she industriously flourished the buffer. “I don't see, Mamma,” she added presently, “why you don't let Jennie do your nails for you.”

“Because I like to do them myself, Beryl.” Mrs. Vernon held a hand to the light, caught sight of a flaw in the perfection of the work, frowned slightly, and seized an orange-stick. “One must do something to lighten the monotony of life in—in a house of mourning.”

It was the girl's turn to frown. “I don't think you need to talk that way, Mamma,” she replied, mildly resentful.

“It's the way I feel,” said Mrs. Vernon cheerfully. “With your father chained in Washington to a Bill, and no one in sight from one day's end to another, my dear”—she shrugged a pair of slimly graceful shoulders—“I think 'house of mourning' just describes it.”

“What—what do you want me to do?” asked Beryl.

Mrs. Vernon polished silently for a minute. “Well, even if you don't care to encourage callers, you might at least not bite their heads off when they do come, which, goodness knows, is seldom enough!”

“Mamma! 'Bite their heads off'!”

“Metaphorically speaking, my dear.”

“Please, whose head have I bit—bitten2”

“Bitten, I think,” said her mother helpfully.

“Bitten off, then?” persisted Beryl, with some spirit.

“Well, still speaking in metaphors, you quite decapitated that Russell boy, and at least partially beheaded George Smith.”

“Tiresome, smirky old thing,” murmured Beryl.

“He is tiresome, my dear. No one knows it better than I do, since on the occasion of his last call I had to entertain him for nearly an hour while you coddled an imaginary headache upstairs.”

“It would have been real enough if I'd stayed down here,” replied Beryl with a smile, closely followed by a sigh.

Mrs. Vernon looked slightly aggrieved. “Oh, it's all very well for you, Beryl. You are old and past the taste for frivolities, but I am young and pine for the pleasure of occasional discourse with some one besides Perkins or Jennie or, if you will forgive me, you. I pine, too, for a rubber of auction—or even whist would be wildly exciting. I am heartily sick of Canfield. I've played it so much that I awake in the night to find myself putting imaginary red deuces on black trays. I even had the nightmare once when I dreamed that all four aces were buried under the seventh pile, and that a miserable red queen without an affinity in the pack was holding them down!”

Beryl laughed amusedly. “Poor Mamma! Did her hard-hearted daughter scare all the mens away from her?”

“I could do without men, my dear, if there was even a woman in sight, and you know there isn't. I've used up most of the paper in the house writing invitations to folks, and not a single victim have I caught. Everybody has a son graduating somewhere, it seems. Next month they'll be simply delighted to visit us, but just at present2” Mrs. Vernon gazed startledly at her daughter. “My dear, it just occurs to me that if I don't do something to head them off, at least a dozen women and two dozen wardrobe trunks will descend on us in July!”

“Horrors! Please do something!”

“Of course I'm very fond of Alderbury,” mused Mrs. Vernon, attaching lids to various jars and boxes, “and I love this place, but I do think it's a mistake to come here out of the season. Except for the Norrises and ourselves and a man or two at the Country Club, there isn't a human being in miles.”

“I'm sorry you find it so dull, dear,” responded Beryl. “After this, I'll be as nice as pie to every one—even Mr. Smith.”

“Well, as for Mr. Smith2”

“Since I dragged you out here so early, I suppose I must provide amusement for you. Mamma. Shall we give a dinner for the Norrises and a few of the men—including Mr. Smith?”

“Hardly a dinner just yet, I think. But I do think you might take a little more interest in things—and people, Beryl. Your attitude is absurd for a girl of your age.”

“It's a very comfortable attitude,” murmured Beryl.

“You know what I mean,” responded her mother, trying to look severe. When she made such attempts she lowered her head a little and seemed to be looking over a pair of imaginary glasses, which led one to suspect that, possibly, in the seclusion of her room, when the print was very fine—but I may be doing the lady an injustice. “You've had a—an unpleasant experience, my dear, but it happened a whole year ago—very nearly—and it is wrong deliberately to let it sour you, and that's just what you are doing, or trying to do. Instead2”

“An unpleasant experience!” repeated Beryl bitterly. “You speak very moderately, Mamma. When a girl has given her whole heart to a man, only to find him worthless—”

“Fiddlesticks! No man is worthless, and certainly not Kenneth Leeds. There's a great deal that's admirable in him. Certainly no man could have behaved in a nicer, more manly way when you broke the engagement. It was a mistake2”

“I'd rather not talk about it, please,” begged her daughter.

“There's no reason why you shouldn't talk about it after a year,” persisted Mrs. Vernon resolutely. “If you'd talked more about it and not just crawled into your shell, like—like one of those things that have shells, you'd have been far more sensible. As for giving your whole heart, you did nothing of the sort. I don't want to hurt you, Beryl, but you are not behaving fairly either to your father or to me in persisting in—in this attitude of yours. It—it's most uncomfortable for every one. Of course I don't say that you didn't care for Mr. Leeds. Had you married him, I've no doubt that you'd have cared a great deal. But it's positively wrong and wicked to insist, to deliberately try to make yourself believe, that your heart is broken and your life wrecked. Good gracious, child, how many women do you suppose there are who are married to their first sweethearts?”

“But the—the ignominy, Mamma, of discovering that—that the man you care for2”

“Is very sensibly interested in your dot? My dear, if you had not been blinded by sentiment2”

“Why shouldn't I have been? Aren't girls allowed to have sentiment any more? How was I to know that he cared nothing for me, but only for the money Papa was to settle on him?”

“Well, you knew he was English,” murmured Mrs. Vernon.

“And then”—Beryl shuddered— “to have to—to break it off like that at the eleventh hour! To read all the horrid things the newspapers printed and to hear the nasty, mean things that people—yes, and one's very dearest friends—said about it! It—oh, it's enough to make you hate every one! And as for men—no, you are right; my heart is not broken, Mamma. But—but I think my pride is.”

After a moment Mrs. Vernon said gently: “A pride that is broken so easily, dear, is hardly worth having, I think. As for what people said”—she shrugged, her shoulders philosophically—“it was only what people always do say and always will say. It's human nature—not the best part of it, but still human nature, dear. People envied you a brilliant marriage, envied your father's wealth that made such a marriage possible, envied you for your attractions and your youth and your happiness. And when the upset came they were glad of it—for a moment—and didn't hesitate to show it. Now that it is over, they are ready to be as good friends as before.”

“Never!”

“When you are older, Beryl, you'll discover that we have to take our friends as they come, with all their faults, or go without.”

“I prefer to go without.”

“Just now, perhaps,” responded Mrs. Vernon quietly; “but later you will find that friends are very necessary, and you will be ready to accept them as the Lord made them, forgiving them many things for the good that is there, besides. We are all very imperfect, Beryl. I suppose that's the only thing that makes any of us lovable.”

Mrs. Vernon folded her towels thoughtfully and sighed. Beryl gazed into the sun-smitten garden beyond the porch with troubled, mutinous eyes. They were very beautiful eyes, truly violet in color, and they looked out of a warmly-hued, oval face whose loveliness was proof against even the expression of discontent that rested upon it. Beryl Vernon had all the soft and quiet beauty of her mother, plus a certain more stately quality which had been her father's contribution. Senator Whittier Vernon was still, at fifty-five, the handsomest man in the Senate. Without being much above ordinary height, the Senator impressed the world as being a tall man, and this faculty he had passed on to his daughter. Beryl was no more than an inch above her mother in stature, yet looked much taller. But you are not to accept the impression that she was a haughty, imperious beauty. She was too much like the older woman to be that. There was a grace and litheness in the rounded but still slender form that prevailed against any tendency to statuesqueness, while the features, although almost ideally regular, were far from haughty. The face was warm, even vivid, and one would have sworn that the present troubled gloom in the soft eyes and the self-pitying droop of the red lips were far from natural there.

“While we are talking of—of this, Beryl,” Mrs. Vernon continued presently, “I think, perhaps, I might as well tell you of something that Eugenia White wrote me a day or two ago. She says that Mr. Leeds is engaged. Pittsburgh girl—I forget the name—whom he met on the other side.” Mrs. Vernon watched her daughter's face very closely. The expression changed very little, and there was only the barest tinge of bitterness in the voice that responded, after a brief moment:

“I hope he will be happy.”

Mrs. Vernon sighed her relief very gently and went on more cheerfully: “I think the name is Schwartz or—well, it was German, I'm certain. Eugenia says the family has a great deal of money. Steel, I presume. One always associates Pittsburgh with steel, doesn't one? They are to be married on this side in the autumn.”

There was a minute of silence, and then2

“Do you suppose,” asked Beryl musingly, “he really cares—this time, Mamma?”

Mrs. Vernon shrugged slightly. The movement was becoming to her, and she often indulged in it. “My dear, Englishmen have extraordinary command over their emotions, and whether he is really in love with the girl or not, no one but he will ever know. Surely it must be almost, time for luncheon? Not that I am hungry, but life here just now is so much like life on shipboard that meal-time is an event of exciting magnitude! I must call Jennie to take these things—” Mrs. Vernon's voice trailed away into silence. Then, “Now, who do you suppose that may be?” she asked softly.

The living-porch was at the end of the house, the only feature not strictly in accord with its artfully artless Colonialism, but from it one commanded the white trellised gate set in the high hedge that enclosed the place, and Beryl, following her mother's gaze, saw a man leaning upon the gate. He held a pipe in his mouth and seemed to be dreamily regarding the house. Beside him, visible through the pickets, was a rather dirty, white dog.

Chapter 3

III

Presently, as the observer at the gate neither entered nor retired, Mrs. Vernon turned questioningly to her daughter. Beryl smiled her own mystification and shook her head. If the man saw them, he paid them no heed. He only puffed at his pipe and slowly, contemplatively, gazed over the house and about the garden before him. The dog laid himself down on the gravel and apparently went to sleep.

“He certainly isn't a tramp,” said Mrs. Vernon softly. “And—and from this distance he seems quite good-looking. Beryl, I scent a romance!”

“If you don't behave, I shall telegraph Papa to come home instantly,” replied Beryl, with a murmured laugh. “He has a pack on his back, hasn't he? Perhaps he has laces and spools of cotton and things to sell.”

Mrs. Vernon shook her head, still gazing intently. “I wish he had. A peddler would be absolutely exciting. But he isn't that. He—he looks like a gentleman, Beryl.”

“Some of them do, dear. There was the one who came here two years ago and sold Jennie a piece of edging and walked off with a brand-new wringer. Is he coming in?”

“Coming in? No, he has apparently gone to sleep there. You don't suppose he is—is intoxicated, do you?” Mrs. Vernon glanced nervously around, as though seeking to arm herself. Nothing, however, more formidable than a cuticle-knife presented itself to her gaze. At that moment the man at the gate gave the lie to the assumption that he was asleep, by removing the pipe from between his teeth, knocking the ashes from it, and returning it to his mouth.

“Perhaps,” murmured Mrs. Vernon, “I'd better send Perkins to see what he wants.”

“Nonsense, dear! He isn't doing any harm.”

“But—but I want to know!” declared Mrs. Vernon. “Besides, the apparition of a real man about the place is distinctly—well, exhilarating! Do you suppose we might invite him to luncheon, Beryl?”

“I've no doubt he'd appreciate it,” Beryl laughed. “He certainly isn't dressed like a tramp—nor a peddler. Those trousers are very well cut, and he wears puttees. I'll tell you what he is, Mamma: he's an artist. You know artists are absolutely irresponsible, dear; just the sort of folks to go to sleep over one's gate.”

“I believe he is! I'm very fond of artists, too. I think—yes, I think I'll go down and speak to him.”

“Mamma! Well, anyhow, don't ask him to luncheon, will you? Artists always have terrible appetites, and I'm not sure that we have enough to satisfy him. Shall I go along to protect you?”

“No, he is my discovery, Beryl. Hands off! But you might just—just sort of watch things, dear. If he tries to get in, please ring for Perkins.” And Mrs. Vernon, unconsciously patting her hair, stepped down onto the grass and turned toward the walk. Beryl followed her smilingly with her eyes.

“Poor Mamma!” she thought. “I suppose I have been selfish.”

The stranger apparently did not sense Mrs. Vernon's approach until her footsteps, inaudible on the grass, crunched the gravel of the front path. Then, bringing his gaze slowly down from the upper story of the house, he saw her, and lifted the cap from the back of his head, bowing so—well, so hospitably over the gate that for an instant the absurd delusion held her that she and not he was the intruder! If she had expected him to withdraw with a proper show of confusion, she was doomed to disappointment, for he only watched her approach with a sort of eager tranquillity. And then, just when she was parting her lips to ask him if there was anything she could do for him, he spoke.

“Madam,” he said, cap in hand, “I thank you. You demonstrate the truth of one of my favorite theories.”

Mrs. Vernon gasped. “Bless the man!” she exclaimed. “What's he talking about?”

“I beg your pardon,” he laughed. “It is a failing of mine, I fear, to begin a conversation in the middle. But, after all, preliminaries are usually tiresome, don't you think?”

“Preliminaries? Theories?” She observed him bewilderedly. “Are you quite sane, sir?”

“I hope not,” he replied soberly, with, however, a twinkle in his eyes. “I've always found absolute, uncompromising sanity to be deadly dull.”

Mrs. Vernon smiled doubtfully. “Perhaps; but—I fear I don't quite understand your cause for gratitude.”

“I have always held that a dwelling should reflect the personality of its owner. Don't you think that reasonable?”

“If you say should and not does,” replied the lady. “But in what way, if you please, have I—I believe you said demonstrated2”

“Yes. You see, I had been for some time observing your house, admiring it, finding it, in fact, utterly congruous, distinctly charming. And then, at the very moment I reached my verdict, you appeared. In gratitude for having my theory so admirably justified, I thanked you.”

Mrs. Vernon blinked. “I—my dear man, is that intended for a compliment?”

“Would it not be a waste of breath to pay a compliment to a house?” he asked with a smile.

“Oblige me, please, by putting your hat on,” said the lady, a trifle severely. “If what I suspect is really the case, you are in danger of aggravating your trouble by remaining bareheaded.”

The stranger smiled. “I am, madam, neither a lunatic nor a victim to sunstroke. I am merely a—a would-be tenant searching for a house.”

“Then I fear you are wasting your time about Alderbury. To my certain knowledge, there are no houses for rent here. As you see, it is only a settlement, hardly even a village, and2”

“I should perhaps explain that I am not looking for just any house, madam, but for a particular house. And, since I find Alderbury very pleasing, I was hoping to discover my house somewhere about here.”

“Am I to understand that the house is already your property?” asked Mrs. Vernon puzzledly.

“By no means. I have never seen it. I am still searching for it. You see before you a wanderer in search of a home. I might say”—he turned to glance at the dog beside him—“I might say two wanderers in search of a home. The house I am looking for is a small white house with green blinds. It stands a little way back from the road”—his gaze traveled past Mrs. Vernon and rested upon the cottage—“and looks over the top of a hedge, with friendly windows.” He glanced approvingly at the hedge. “In front there are beds of flowers bordered with box.” He looked down and nodded his satisfaction. “At one side”—and his glance turned toward the enclosed garden—“there is a sunny tangle of flowers—old- fashioned flowers such as heliotrope and bleeding-heart and alyssum and hollyhocks and—and”—he craned his head a little—“Canterbury bells. The garden is filled with the song of birds and the drone of bees, and in it stands—” He faltered, stopped. A puzzled look came into his face. He turned to Mrs. Vernon almost accusingly: “Where, Madam, is the dove-cot?”

“The dove-cot?”

“In the garden, yes. I don't see it. It should have honeysuckle climbing about it.”

Mrs. Vernon viewed the garden blankly and then the man, and there was a note of apology in her voice as she stammered:

“There isn't any dove-cot!” Then, impatient with herself for the momentary sense of dereliction, she added with asperity, “Besides, I don't see that it matters, sir, as this place is not for sale.”

“Oh!” He spoke regretfully. “Then it is not called 'Heart's Content'?”

“It is not. It isn't called anything.”

The stranger made no reply for a moment. His gaze roamed again about house and garden, and finally traveled back to Mrs. Vernon. He sighed. “I feared it was not the place,” he said, “when I noted the absence of the dove-cot. I am sorry. It is a very lovely place and2” He paused, his eyes going back to the cottage. “You are quite certain that it is not called 'Heart's Content'?”

“Bless the man! Don't you suppose I know the name of my own house?” demanded Mrs. Vernon.

“Yes?” he replied, gravely interested. “And the name is2”

“It hasn't any.” Mrs. Vernon's voice sounded ludicrously flat.

The stranger smiled. “Ah, you see, then, you don't know! And so perhaps it is 'Heart's Content,' after all, and the place I am looking for.” But there was a want of assurance in his tone which was explained when he added dejectedly, “Were it not for the fact that the dove-cot is missing” Then he brightened. “But perhaps it has been taken down, stored away somewhere,” he suggested eagerly.

“Nonsense! There never was a dove-cot, and it is not called 'Heart's Content,' and2”

“I believe you are right,” returned the man. “It is not 'Heart's Content.' Pray pardon my stupidity. But you are wrong, Madam, in saying that it has no name.”

“Well, really—” began Mrs. Vernon.

“It's name is 'Solana.'”

The stranger removed his cap, bowed smilingly, and went on along the road. At his heels plodded the dog.

Chapter 4

IV

“Of course,” said Mrs. Vernon, at the luncheon-table, “the man was quite crazy, but2”

“He couldn't have been,” replied Beryl, “since he owned to it. Insane folks invariably protest their sanity, don't they?”

“Well, if he wasn't crazy, will you please tell me what he was up to? The idea of hanging over our gate and insisting that this place was called 'Heart's Content'! If that isn't a sign of insanity, then I don't know!”

“'Heart's Content,” mused Beryl. “But, really, Mamma, that's a very sweet name for a home, isn't it?”

“Perhaps; but—the asparagus, please. Besides, he almost made me think for a moment that this might really be his house! And when he insisted on having a dove-cot I was nearly ready to order one at once!”

Beryl laughed. “I fear, Mamma, he was 'stringing you,' as the boys say.”

“Humph!” said Mrs. Vernon.

“And you say he talked like a gentleman?” pursued her daughter.

“He was a gentleman,” avowed Mrs. Vernon. “And that's what makes it all so—so ridiculous and puzzling. He was very good-looking, too, with quite wonderful red-brown eyes. They say insane people always have peculiar eyes, don't they?”

“Perhaps; but insanity wouldn't account for the color of them, would it?”

“I suppose not.” Mrs. Vernon sighed. “Well, I fancy I ought to be grateful to him for affording some excitement to a poor, lonely . Only—well, it does make me angry to have folks do things I can't understand. If he will come back and explain why he is wandering around the country with a disreputable dog, paying compliments to strange ladies over front gates and talking about white houses with friendly windows and hollyhocks and dove-cots—what is a dove-cot, Beryl?”