“No. He has adopted hers. It’s a new phase with Robert. That’s why I’ve been suspecting a fresh influence lately.” She hesitated. “Robert’s like that,” she said at last. “He’s susceptible to every new impression. He reflects everything that----” She paused. “It’s the same with his work,” she went on. “He is always under some fresh influence. Lately it’s been swashbuckling. He’s made money out of that.” “Why, his work used to be psychological!” exclaimed Rose. “Minute analysis and hair-splitting distinctions!” “I know. That was one of the phases. There have been many masters since then. And now, I suppose, there will be as many--mistresses.” She spoke with a quiet irony, more painful than any display of grief. It was the tone of a woman already so disillusioned that a fact more or less made comparatively little difference. “Cecily,” ventured Mrs. Summers, almost timidly, “there may be nothing wrong.” Cecily made a weary movement. “Do you know, that seems of little importance. It’s the other things that count, and when they’ve gone----” She did not finish the sentence. Outside, the garden, all vaporous, blue and silver, was like a vision. Softly, quite softly at first, a nightingale began to sing, each note falling like a drop of crystal water through the blue air. Both women were motionless till the song ceased as suddenly as it had begun. “How beautiful!” murmured Rose. “I shall miss this garden,” said Cecily, suddenly. “I have worked in it for three years. Every woman ought to have a garden--then at least she gets _some_ of the roses of life. Are _you_ happy?” she added, almost in the same breath, with startling abruptness. Mrs. Summers hesitated. “Yes,” she returned, finally, “in a placid way--yes. But then, I’m a practical woman. I always left the stars out of my calculations, didn’t I? Jack and I suited each other. We have continued to suit each other. I never expected him to be the lover of romance. Poor dear! he’s not at all made for the part. But he wears well, you know, Cis. And,” her voice softened, “I have the babies.” Cecily was silent. “Yours is the sane view of life,” she said at last. “I know; though in moods, fortunately rare, I would exchange it for an _in_sane one,” returned Mrs. Summers, with a laugh. “Though I leave the stars out, I don’t forget they are there.” “I wonder?” returned Cecily. “Are you going to say anything about this to your husband?” asked Mrs. Summers, with apparent irrelevance. “No,” said Cecily, briefly. “And Mayne? Are you going to have him down here?” “Yes. Why not? If Robert wishes it, how can I object? I shall be very glad to see Dick again,” she added. “Is it wise?” “That’s Robert’s affair.” “I was thinking of Dick.” “That’s _his_ affair. He had my answer long ago, and he knows I meant it. Besides,” she smiled a little, “don’t worry--I’ve lost my looks.” “Dick is not that sort.” “Every man is that sort.”