To Mr. Welles' horror this provoked from Vincent one of his great

laughs. And this time he was sure that Mrs. Crittenden would take

offense, for she looked up, distinctly startled, really quite as though

he had looked in through the key-hole. But Vincent went on laughing.

He even said, impudently, "Ah, now I've caught you, Mrs. Crittenden;

you're too used to keeping your jokes to yourself. And they're much too

good for that."

She looked at him hard, with a certain wonder in her eyes.

"Oh, there's no necromancy about it," he told her. "I've been reading

the titles of your books and glancing over your music before you came

in. And I can put two and two together. Who are you making fun of to

yourself? Who first got off that lovely speech about the refining

influence of church?"

She laughed a little, half-uneasily, a brighter color mounting to her

smooth oval cheeks. "That's one of Mrs. Bayweather's favorite maxims,"

she admitted. She added, "But I really do like to go to church."

Mr. Welles felt an apprehension about the turn things were taking.

Vincent, he felt sure, was on the verge of being up to something. And he

did not want to risk offending Mrs. Crittenden. He stood up. "Thank you

very much for telling us about the minister and his wife, Mrs.

Crittenden. I think we'll go right along down to the village now, and

pay a call on them. There'll be time enough before dinner." Vincent of

course got up too, at this, saying, "He's the most perfect old

housekeeper, you know. He's kept the neatest flat for himself and that

aged aunt of his for seventy years."

"Seventy!" cried Mr. Welles, scandalized at the exaggeration.

"Oh, more or less," said Vincent, laughing. Mr. Welles noticed with no

enthusiasm that his eyes were extremely bright, that he smiled almost

incessantly, that he stepped with an excess of his usual bounce.

Evidently something had set him off into one of his fits of wild high

spirits. You could almost feel the electricity sparkle from him, as it

does from a cat on a cold day. Personally, Mr. Welles preferred not to

touch cats when they were like that.

"When are you going back to the city, Mr. Marsh?" asked Mrs. Crittenden,

as they said good-bye at the door.

Vincent was standing below her on the marble step. He looked up at her

now, and something about his expression made Mr. Welles think again of

glossy fur emitting sparks. He said, "I'll lay you a wager, Mrs.

Crittenden, that there is one thing your Ashley underground news-service

has not told you about us, and that is, that I've come up not only to

help Mr. Welles install himself in his new home, but to take a somewhat

prolonged rest-cure myself. I've always meant to see more of this

picturesque part of Vermont. I've a notion that the air of this lovely

spot will do me a world of good."




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