His thoughts travelled on. He recalled the long dull spring in New York after his break with Susy, the weary grind on his last articles, his listless speculations as to the cheapest and least boring way of disposing of the summer; and then the amazing luck of going, reluctantly and at the last minute, to spend a Sunday with the poor Nat Fulmers, in the wilds of New Hampshire, and of finding Susy there--Susy, whom he had never even suspected of knowing anybody in the Fulmers’ set! She had behaved perfectly--and so had he--but they were obviously much too glad to see each other. And then it was unsettling to be with her in such a house as the Fulmers’, away from the large setting of luxury they were both used to, in the cramped cottage where their host had his studio in the verandah, their hostess practiced her violin in the dining-room, and five ubiquitous children sprawled and shouted and blew trumpets and put tadpoles in the water-jugs, and the mid-day dinner was two hours late--and proportionately bad--because the Italian cook was posing for Fulmer. Lansing’s first thought had been that meeting Susy in such circumstances would be the quickest way to cure them both of their regrets. The case of the Fulmers was an awful object-lesson in what happened to young people who lost their heads; poor Nat, whose pictures nobody bought, had gone to seed so terribly--and Grace, at twenty-nine, would never again be anything but the woman of whom people say, “I can remember her when she was lovely.” But the devil of it was that Nat had never been such good company, or Grace so free from care and so full of music; and that, in spite of their disorder and dishevelment, and the bad food and general crazy discomfort, there was more amusement to be got out of their society than out of the most opulently staged house-party through which Susy and Lansing had ever yawned their way. It was almost a relief to the young man when, on the second afternoon, Miss Branch drew him into the narrow hall to say: “I really can’t stand the combination of Grace’s violin and little Nat’s motor-horn any longer. Do let us slip out till the duet is over.” “How do they stand it, I wonder?” he basely echoed, as he followed her up the wooded path behind the house. “It might be worth finding out,” she rejoined with a musing smile. But he remained resolutely skeptical. “Oh, give them a year or two more and they’ll collapse--! His pictures will never sell, you know. He’ll never even get them into a show.” “I suppose not. And she’ll never have time to do anything worth while with her music.” They had reached a piny knoll high above the ledge on which the house was perched. All about them stretched an empty landscape of endless featureless wooded hills. “Think of sticking here all the year round!” Lansing groaned. “I know. But then think of wandering over the world with some people!”