“On the account of my mother,” she explained. “But it doesn't matter much where I am. Places are all alike,” she continued conversationally. “We're mostly at hotels--Florida in winter and Lake George in summer. This is kind of between.” “Oh!” he said; and she was sure, from that short single exclamation, he understood everything. “Like all true beauty,” he added, “it's plain that you are durable.” “I don't like the seashore,” she went on easily; “I'd rather be in a garden with piles of flowers and a big hedge.” “Have you ever lived in a garden-close?” “No,” she admitted; “it's just an idea. I told mother but she laughed at me and said a roof-garden was her choice.” “Some day you'll have the place you describe,” he assured her. “It is written all over you. I would like to see you, Bellina, in a space of emerald sod and geraniums.” She decided to accept without further protest his name for her. “You are right, too, about the hedge--the highest and thickest in creation. I should recommend a pseudo-classic house, Georgian, rather small, a white façade against the grass. A Jacobean dining-room, dark certainly, the French windows open on dipping candle flames. You'd wear white, with your hair low and the midnight bang as it is now.” “That would be awfully nice,” Linda replied vaguely. She sighed. “But a very light drawing-room!” he cried. “White panels and arches and Canton-blue rugs--the brothers Adam. A fluted mantel, McIntires, and a brass hod. Curiously enough, I always see you in the evening ... at the piano. I'm not so bored, now.” Little flames of red burned in either thin cheek. “What nonsense!” Suddenly he was tired. “This is a practical and earnest world,” his voice grew thin and hurt her. “Yet beauty is relentless. You'll have your garden, but I shouldn't be surprised at difficulties first.” “It won't be so hard to get,” she declared confidently. “I mean to choose the right man. Mother says that's the answer. Women, she says, won't use their senses.” “Ah.” Linda began to think this was a most unpleasant monosyllable. “So that's the lay! Has she succeeded?” “She has a splendid time. She's out tonight with Mr. Jasper in a rolling chair, and he has loads and loads of money. It makes all the other women cross.” “Here you are, then, till she gets back?” “There's no one else.” “But, as a parent, infinitely preferable to the righteous,” he murmured. “And you--” “I think mother's perfect,” she answered simply. He shook his head. “You won't succeed at it, though. Your mother, for example, isn't dark.” “The loveliest gold hair,” she said ecstatically. “She's much much prettier than I'll ever be.” “Prettier, yes. The trouble is, you are lovely, magical. You will stay for a lifetime in the memory. The merest touch of you will be more potent than any duty or fidelity. A man's only salvation will be his blindness.”