“Mary, there is some one in Boston I must see. I was unjust, and ignorant, and--_mean_. Mean and stupid. Now I’m going to Boston and tell him so.” Mary Wiley smiled at her. “I think that’s big and fine, Virginia. Shall I go with you--to Boston, I mean? I’ve been wanting to run down for a day or two, to see my cousin Sarah; she is ill again. There’s a mousy little hotel just across the street from her house where you could stay. Let me see ... my young aliens would adore not being Americanized for a few days; suppose we go Monday and come back on Friday? That will give you time for a little sedate sight-seeing to please mother--and for--for your own affairs.” She smiled sunnily at her. “My dear, I’m very glad. I’ve been sure that there was some one.” Ginger shook her head, her color mounting. “I don’t know, Mary; I’m not sure of anything, except that I must go--and tell him.” “I’ve known there was some one,” said Mary Wiley. There had been some one, with her, once, but he had not come home from France. Mrs. Wiley had wept when she told Ginger about it, but if Mary Wiley ever wept she made her tears turn the wheels of her serene and selfless activities. * * * * * Aunt Fan lifted her plucked eyebrows when she learned that her niece was going to Boston. “_I_ should say it would be much better form just to drop him a line--one of those postcards with a picture of the hotel on it--and say--oh, ‘West is East,’ or something kind of cute like that, and wait for _him_ to make the first move!” Aunt Fan was feeling a trifle acid; she and Jim Featherstone were getting on each other’s nerves again, and in spite of being so triumphantly active she had gained six pounds. * * * * * On the way to Boston Ginger tried to formulate what she would say to Dean Wolcott; she wanted to make it proudly clear to him that this was no overture for a return to their former relation; it was simply and solely an acknowledgment of her wrongness of attitude at Dos Pozos, of her new respect and liking for the world he had always lived in, but always when she rehearsed it her phrases were swallowed up in great waves of gladness which rolled over her--like the music she had heard from her high perch in Carnegie. After all, she was Virginia Valdés McVeagh, feudal lady of her own land; under her novel humility there was the conviction that she had only to extend her forgiveness and her understanding. She summoned up the memory of his look, his tall slimness, his walk, the tones of his voice; his arms, his lips.