He shook his head. "Trains wouldn't suit your style. Nor big fans. You ought to have a little fan--of sandalwood, with a purple and green tassel and smelling sweet. Mother says that her mother carried a fan like that at a White House ball."
"Well, you needn't want to go. It's a cram and a jam and everybody bored to death."
"I shouldn't be bored. I should love it."
His eyes were on the fire. And presently he said, "It seems queer to be away from it--New York. There's something about it that gets into your blood. You want it--as you do--drink."
He jerked around to look at her. "No," sharply; "what makes you say that?"
"Because--it--it doesn't seem possible that you could be--buried--here."
His face was grave. "And doesn't the school work--help?"
She caught her breath. "That's the best part of it. You see I love--the children."
He flashed a quick glance at her. "Then you're lonely sometimes?"
"I fancy these people aren't exactly--your kind. I wish you'd come and see my mother. She's awfully worth while, you know. And she'd be so glad to have you."
She found herself saying, "My grandmother was Cynthia Warfield. She knew your grandfather. I have some old letters. I think your mother might like to see them."
"No wonder I've been puzzling over you! Cynthia Warfield's portrait hangs in our library. And you're like your grandmother. Only you're young and--alive."
Again his ringing laugh and her own to meet it. She felt so young and happy. So very, very young, and so very, very happy!
Mrs. Bower, appearing importantly, announced supper. Beyond the hall, through the open door of the dining-room they could see the loaded table with the tureens of steaming oysters at each end.
Anne leaned down to wake Peggy. The child opened her heavy eyes, and murmured: "I want a drink."
Richard glanced at her. "Hello, hello," he said, quickly. "What's the matter, Pussy?"
"I'm not Pussy--I'm Peggy." The child was ready for tears.
He picked her up in his arms and carried her to the light. With careful finger he lifted the heavy eyelids and touched the hot little cheeks. "How long has she been this way?" he asked Anne.
"Just since supper. Is there anything the matter with her? Is she really sick, Dr. Brooks?"
"Measles," he said succinctly. "You'd better get her straight to bed."