Mary, who had lived all her life in a small town within sight of the open fields, was beginning to feel the confinement of city life. Even during her year in London she had joined other girls in weekend bicycling excursions out of town, or tubed to Golder's Green or Shepherd's Bush in search of country walks. Now that the late snows of March had cleared away, she began eagerly to watch for swelling buds in the Square, and was dismayed when Stefan told her that the spring, in this part of America, was barely perceptible before May.

“That's the first objection I've found to your country, Stefan,” she said.

He was scowling moodily out of the window. “The first? I see nothing but objections.”

“Oh, come!” she smiled at him; “it hasn't been so bad, has it?”

“Better than I had expected,” he conceded. “But it will soon be April, and I remember the leaves in the Luxembourg for so many Aprils back.”

She came and put her arm through his. “Do you want to go, dear?”

“Oh, hang it all, Mary, you don't suppose I want to leave you?” he answered brusquely, releasing his arm. “I want my own place, that's all.”

She had, in her quieter way, become just as homesick for England, though sharing none of his dislike of her adopted land.

“Well, shall we both go?” she suggested.

He laughed shortly. “Don't be absurd, dearest—what would your doctor say to such a notion? No, we've got to stick it out,” and he ruffled his hair impatiently.

With a suppressed sigh Mary changed the subject. “By the by, I want you to meet Dr. Hillyard; I have asked her to tea this afternoon.”

“Do you honestly mean it when you say she is not an elderly ironsides with spectacles?”

“I honestly assure you she is young and pretty. Moreover, I forbid you to talk like an anti-suffragist,” she laughed.

“Very well, then, I will be at home,” with an answering grin.

And so he was, and on his best behavior, when the little doctor arrived an hour later. She had been found by the omniscient Miss Mason, and after several visits Mary had more than endorsed the Sparrow's enthusiastic praise.

When the slight, well-tailored little figure entered the room Stefan found it hard to believe that this fresh-faced girl was the physician, already a specialist in her line, to whom Mary's fate had been entrusted. For the first time he wondered if he should not have shared with Mary some responsibility for her arrangements. But as, with an unwonted sense of duty, he questioned the little doctor, his doubts vanished. Without a trace of the much hated professional manner she gave him glimpses of wide experience, and at one point mentioned an operation she had just performed—which he knew by hearsay as one of grave difficulty—with the same enthusiastic pleasure another young woman might have shown in the description of a successful bargain-hunt. She was to Stefan a new type, and he was delighted with her. Mary, watching him, thought with affectionate irony that had the little surgeon been reported plain of face he would have denied himself in advance both the duty and the pleasure of meeting her.

Over their tea, Dr. Hillyard made a suggestion.

“Where are you planning to spend the summer?” she asked.

Stefan looked surprised. “We thought we ought to be here, near you,” he answered.

“Oh, no,” the doctor shook her head; “young couples are always martyrizing themselves for these events. By May it will be warm, and Mrs. Byrd isn't acclimatized to our American summers. Find a nice place not too far from the city—say on Long Island—and I can run out whenever necessary. You both like the country, I imagine?”

Stefan was overjoyed. He jumped up.

“Dr. Hillyard, you've saved us. We thought we had to be prisoners, and I've been eating my heart out for France. The country will be a compromise.”

“Yes,” said the doctor, smiling a little, “Mrs. Byrd has been longing for England for a month or more.”

“I never said so!” and “She never told me!” exclaimed Mary and Stefan simultaneously.

“No, you didn't,” the little doctor nodded wisely at her patient, “but I know.”

Stefan immediately began to plan an expedition in search of the ideal spot, as unspoiled if possible as Shadeham, but much nearer town. All through dinner he discussed it, his spirits hugely improved, and immediately after rang up Constance Elliot for advice.

“Hold the line,” the lady's voice replied, “while I consult.” In a minute or two she returned.

“Mr. Farraday is dining with us, and I've asked him. He lives at Crab's Bay, you know.”

“No, I don't,” objected Stefan.

“Well, he does,” her voice laughed back. “He was born there. He says if you like he will come over and talk to you about it, and I, like a self-sacrificing hostess, am willing to let him.”

“Splendid idea,” said Stefan, “ask him to come right over. Mary,” he called, hanging up the receiver, “Constance is sending Farraday across to advise us.”

“Oh, dear,” said she; “sometimes I feel almost overwhelmed by all the favors we receive from our friends.”

“Fiddlesticks! They are paid by the pleasure of our society. You don't seem to realize that we are unusually interesting and attractive people,” laughed he with a flourish.

“Vain boy!”

“So I am, and vain of being vain. I believe in being as conceited as possible, conceited enough to make one's conceit good.”

She smiled indulgently, knowing that, as he was talking nonsense, he felt happy.

Farraday appeared in a few minutes, and they settled in a group round the fire with coffee and cigarettes. Stefan offered Mary one. She shook her head.

“I'm not smoking now, you know.”

“Did Dr. Hillyard say so?” he asked quickly.

“No, but—”

“Then don't be poky, dearest.” He lit the cigarette and held it out to her, but she waved it back.

“Don't tease, dear,” she murmured, noticing that Farraday was watching them. Stefan with a shrug retained the cigarette in his left hand, and smoked it ostentatiously for some minutes, alternately with his own. Mary, hoping he was not going to be naughty, embarked on the Long Island topic.

“We want to be within an hour of the city,” she explained, “but in pretty country. We want to keep house, but not to pay too much. We should like to be near the sea. Does that sound wildly impossible?”

Farraday fingered his cigarette reflectively.

“I rather think,” he said at last, “that my neighborhood most nearly meets the requirements. I have several hundred acres at Crab's Bay, which belonged to my father, running from the shore halfway to the railroad station. The village itself is growing suburban, but the properties beyond mine are all large, and keep the country open. We are only an hour from the city—hardly more, by automobile.”

“Are there many tin cans?” enquired Stefan, flippantly. “In Michigan I remember them as the chief suburban decoration.”

“Yes?” said Farraday, in his invariably courteous tone, “I've never been there. It is a long way from New York.”

“TouchÉ,” cried Stefan, grinning. “But you would think pessimism justified if you'd ever had my experience of rural life.”

“Was your father really American?” enquired his guest with apparent irrelevance.

“Yes, and a minister.”

“Oh, a minister. I see,” the other replied, quietly.

“Explains it, does it?” beamed Stefan, who was nothing if not quick. They all laughed, and the little duel was ended. Mary took up the broken discussion.

“Is there the slightest chance of our finding anything reasonably cheap in such a neighborhood?” she asked.

“I was just coming to that,” said Farraday. “You would not care to be in the village, and any houses that might be for rent there would be expensive, I'm afraid. But it so happens there is a cottage on the edge of my property where my father's old farmer used to live. After his death I put a little furniture in the place, and have occasionally used it. But it is entirely unnecessary to me, and you are welcome to it for the summer if it would suit you. The rent would be nominal. I don't regard it commercially, it's too near my own place.”

Mary flushed. “It's most awfully good of you,” she said, “but I don't know if we ought to accept. I'm afraid you may be making it convenient out of kindness.”

“Mary, how British!” Stefan interrupted. He had taken lately so to labeling her small conventionalities. “Why accuse Mr. Farraday of altruistic insincerity? I think his description sounds delightful. Let's go tomorrow and see the cottage.”

“If you will wait till Sunday,” Farraday smiled, “I shall be delighted to drive you out. It might be easier for Mrs. Byrd.”

Mary again demurred on the score of giving unnecessary trouble, but Stefan overrode her, and Farraday was obviously pleased with the plan. It was arranged that he should call for them in his car the following Sunday, and that they should lunch with him and his mother. When he had left Stefan performed a little pas seul around the room.

“Tra-la-la!” he sang; “birds, Mary, trees, water. No more chimney pots, no more walking up and down that tunnel of an avenue. See what it is to have admiring friends.”

Mary flushed again. “Why will you spoil everything by putting it like that?”

He stopped and patted her cheek teasingly.

“It's me they admire, Mary, the great artist, creator of the famous DanaË,” and he skipped again, impishly.

Mary was obliged to laugh. “You exasperating creature!” she said, and went to bed, while he ran up to the studio to pull out the folding easel and sketching-box of his old Brittany days.