No, no; stay." They knew no better than she
did why they were so eager to keep her.

"Are you going down-town, Vin?" Adelaide asked, and her voice shook a
little on the question; she was so eager that he should not institute any
change in his routine so soon.

"Of course," he answered.

They looked at each other, yet their look said nothing in particular.
Presently he said:

"I wonder if I might have breakfast in here. I'll go and shave if you'll
order it; and don't let Mathilde go. I have something to say to her."

When he was gone, Mathilde went and stood at the window, looking out, and
tying knots in the window-shade's cord. It was a trick Adelaide had
always objected to, and she was quite surprised to hear herself saying
now, just as usual:

"Mathilde, don't tie knots in that cord."

Mathilde threw it from her as one whose mind was engaged on higher
things.

"You know," she observed, "I believe I'm only just beginning to
appreciate Mr. Farron. He's so wise. I see what you meant about his being
strong, and he's so clever. He knows just what you're thinking all the
time. Isn't it nice that he likes Pete? Did he say anything more about
him after you went up-stairs? I mean, he really does like him, doesn't
he? He doesn't say that just to please me?"

Presently Vincent came back fully dressed and sat down to his breakfast.
Oddly enough, there was a spirit of real gaiety in the air.

"What was it you were going to say to me?" Mathilde asked greedily.
Farron looked at her blankly. Adelaide knew that he had quite forgotten
the phrase, but he concealed the fact by not allowing the least
illumination of his expression as he remembered.

"Oh, yes," he said. "I wish to correct myself. I told you that Mrs.
Wayne was an elderly wood-nymph; but I was wrong. Of course the truth is
that she's a very young witch."

Mathilde laughed, but not whole-heartedly. She had already identified
herself so much with the Waynes that she could not take them quite in
this tone of impersonality.

Farron threw down his napkin, stood up, pulled down his waistcoat.

"I must be off," he said. He went and kissed his wife. Both had to nerve
themselves for that.

She held his arm in both her hands, feeling it solid, real, and as
hard as iron.

"You'll be up-town early?"

"I've a busy day."

"By four?"

"I'll telephone." She loved him for refusing to yield to her just at this
moment of all moments. Some men, she thought, would have