“That’s only because I rest Grandam,” Ariel replied. “Miss Freer would really like to do much more. She considers me officious, I can see, and is put out sometimes. But it’s more important that Grandam should be contented, isn’t it, than that Miss Freer should approve of me.” Mrs. Weyman gasped. Miss Freer had spoken to her several times on the subject of Ariel’s officiousness, but it had not occurred to either of them that Ariel herself knew how the nurse resented her. Since Ariel had taken the job of nurse-companion to her mother-in-law, Mrs. Weyman’s respect for her had, of necessity, grown. Her liking and her interest had grown as well. Besides, there was Anne, so devoted to Ariel! Mrs. Weyman sent up almost daily letters addressed to Ariel in Anne’s sprawling hand. Hugh, too, was fond of her, any one could see. Grandam was absolutely dependent on her. And Glenn! Mrs. Weyman was disturbed about Glenn. When had he ever in his whole life before been interested like this in a girl? Were she and Joan, then, perhaps wrong? Had they made a mistake from the very first about this artist’s daughter in thinking her a mere child, empty in her total lack of experience? Anne’s spirited jazz came through the library windows. Ariel was dancing in Glenn’s arms on the starlit terrace. One could not say she was being taught. From the first step she had merely followed Glenn and the music. They danced like one person, a dark and a light figure, slim and rather elegant in the starlight. Glenn was wearing his tux, and patent-leather pumps. Ariel, Mrs. Weyman noticed, was not small and insignificant as she had got into the habit of thinking her. She was tallish and extraordinarily graceful. “Even so! Glenn mustn’t be serious. It will be years before he even begins to be self-supporting,” Mrs. Weyman mused. “And Joan is probably right. Ariel’s charm is merely that of youth and can’t wear. Still, I don’t like Glenn’s being here all summer. Propinquity does such absurd things sometimes!” And upstairs, Hugh was standing in one of the apartment windows, listening to the faint thrum-thrum of the jazz from below. Heard from this distance—the library windows were on the other side of the house—it sounded eerie, faint. And it kept itself going with an elfish insistence. To Hugh it became the music of a mischievous fairyland, actually malicious in its pricking at his heart. Grandam was lying, too weary to talk or to hear Hugh read, half drowsing. But she was aware of his mood. “I’m glad Ariel’s having a little fun,” she murmured after a while. “Aren’t you, really, Hugh? You’re glad?”