Dallas emerged in greatcoat and a new spring hat. She waved a hand to the faithful Gilda Hanan. “Tell any one who inquires for me that I’ve felt the call of spring. And if the boy comes for that clay pack picture tell him to-morrow was the day.” They were down the stairs and off in the powerful car that seemed to be at the visitors’ disposal. Through the Loop, up Michigan Avenue, into the south side. Chicago, often lowering and gray in April, was wearing gold and blue to-day. The air was sharp but beneath the brusqueness of it was a gentle promise. Dallas and Pool were very much absorbed in Paris plans, Paris reminiscences. “And do you remember the time we . . . only seven francs among the lot of us and the dinner was . . . you’re surely coming over in June, then . . . oils . . . you’ve got the thing, I tell you . . . you’ll be great, Dallas . . . remember what Vibray said . . . study . . . work . . .” Dirk was wretched. He pointed out objects of interest to General Goguet. Sixty miles of boulevard. Park system. Finest in the country. Grand Boulevard. Drexel Boulevard. Jackson Park. Illinois Central trains. Terrible, yes, but they were electrifying. Going to make ’em run by electricity, you know. Things wouldn’t look so dirty, after that. Halsted Street. Longest street in the world. And, “Ah, yes,” said the General, politely. “Ah, yes. Quite so. Most interesting.” The rich black loam of High Prairie. A hint of fresh green things just peeping out of the earth. Hothouses. Coldframes. The farm. It looked very trim and neat. The house, white with green shutters (Selina’s dream realized), smiled at them from among the willows that were already burgeoning hazily under the wooing of a mild and early spring. “But I thought you said it was a small farm!” said General Goguet, as they descended from the car. He looked about at the acreage. “It is small,” Dirk assured him. “Only about forty acres.” “Ah, well, you Americans. In France we farm on a very small scale, you understand. We have not the land. The great vast country.” He waved his right arm. You felt that if the left sleeve had not been empty he would have made a large and sweeping gesture with both arms. Selina was not in the neat quiet house. She was not on the porch, or in the yard. Meena Bras, phlegmatic and unflustered, came in from the kitchen. Mis’ DeJong was in the fields. She would call her. This she proceeded to do by blowing three powerful blasts and again three on a horn which she took from a hook on the wall. She stood in the kitchen doorway facing the fields, blowing, her red cheeks puffed outrageously. “That brings her,” Meena assured them; and went back to her work. They came out on the porch to await Selina. She was out on the west sixteen—the west sixteen that used to be unprolific, half-drowned muckland. Dirk felt a little uneasy, and ashamed that he should feel so.