“We were old-fashioned, even for then,” she said. “Everybody didn't do so much, of course, as we did. Lizzie says we were just on the edge of the new age. It certainly is different. And of course I wouldn't go back to it for anything. After we came back from boarding-school it was all changed. We moved, then, nearer the town. But, do you know, my mother went to singing-school, and Lizzie was looking that up in a book, the other day, to see what they did--she wanted it for a party!” He laughed. “That _is_ delicious!” he said. “See what I found to-day!” she added, drawing a small object from her pocket. “I hunted it up to show Miss Porter tonight. She was so interested when I told her about it.” She showed him, with a tender amusement, a little slender white silk mitten. Around the wrist was embroidered in dark blue a legend in Old English script. He puzzled it out: _A Whig or no Husband!_ “That was mother's,” she said, “the girls wore them then. She was quite a belle, mother was! And when people ask me how Lizzie does so much, I say that she inherits it. But at her age mother was broken down and old. She had to be. There were nine of us, and here there's only little Dudley, and it was so long before he came.” They sat quietly. The setting sun flamed through the crab-apples and burnished the fur of the tortoise-shell cat. The mint smelled strong. The sweet, mellow summer evening was reflected in her handsome face, with its delicate lines, that only added a restful charm to forehead and cheek. He had no need to talk; it was very, very pleasant sitting there. A maid came out to get the mayonnaise, and the spell was broken. He took out his watch. “Just time to dress,” he sighed. “Will you be here again? We must talk old times once more.” She smiled and seemed to assent, but her eyes were not on him; she was still in a revery. He walked softly away. She seemed hardly to notice him, and his last backward glance found the quiet of the picture unbroken; again it was a page from the Greenaway book. He reached the terrace; laughter and applause from the piazza caught his ear. Fresh from the atmosphere he had left, he stared in amazement at the scene before him. Swift figures were scudding from one to another of the four great elms that marked out a natural rectangle on the smooth side lawn. “Puss! puss! Here, puss!” a high voice called, and a tall slender girl in a swish of lace and pink draperies rushed across one side of the square. A portly trousered figure essayed to gain the tree she had left, but a romping girl in white caught him easily, while Mrs. Dud, the tail of her gown thrown over her arm, skimmed triumphantly across to her partner's tree. “One more, one more, colonel. You can't give up, now you're caught! One more before we go in!” called the pink girl. “Here's Mr. Varian. Come and help us out--the colonel's beaten!” added Mrs. Dud.