“Be tremendously busy, my opera scores, naturally, and for a pot-boiler I’ve hired out as proofreader during the regulars’ vacations. I’m to have a famous summer.” She picked up the ukelele and began strumming. “I’ll find you the prettiest mantilla in Spain,” he promised, “but don’t worry if you have no letters—I can’t write letters any more than a woman can understand banking. But you’ll write to me, won’t you, Polly?” “Of course—we’ll all write,” she answered bravely. Thurley paused, unmindful of Fencer’s bark, and pondered on many things, the portrait of the real Bliss Hobart, the man who was worth winning, as she thought with new logic, on Miss Clergy’s vow which cheapened any love no matter how many Lissas might argue to the contrary—unrequited love such as Polly’s—on Caleb, smug and amusing and much in need of Ernestine Christian’s heart, on Ernestine, busy with scales and cigarettes and pessimistic utterances, on Sam Sparling, who had told her during one of their happy talks, “Be a woman first, my child,” on November, with the prospect of the début ... well, had Dan married Lorraine and was it true that a man was nothing short of a hero who married a brilliant woman? What a world it was and wouldn’t it be a relief to have had Ali Baba say it all for her with his usual: “Land sakes and Mrs. Davis, but some folks are going to be mighty nervous when it comes Judgment Day!” * * * * * At that identical moment in Birge’s Corners, Dan and Lorraine were driving through the Boston Valley hills. It had been a hateful Sunday, to Dan’s mind; service in the morning and himself dancing attendance on the minister’s daughter when all the time he longed to bolt from the church to escape the nasal tones of Milly Crawford, the new soloist from Pike. He wanted to sit on the step of the box-car wagon in sulky retrospect. But instead, he meekly followed Lorraine into the parsonage and ate the dinner she had carefully prepared, smoking on the porch while Lorraine “did up the work,” and now they had driven the best part of the afternoon, returning for the monotonous evening service, the cold meat and jelly tea and the customary Sunday night courtship on the vine-covered porch. “Dan,” said Lorraine timidly, one hand reaching over to feel the solitaire on the other;—it gave her courage;—“is the new house getting on all right?” He turned to look at her; she was such a frail, pretty thing in her silk dress—three summers old and homemade at that—her eyes were raised to his as if she were a good heathen looking at a shrine to ask the granting of a boon. “Yes,” he said with dangerous gentleness. “Why?” She dropped her head. “I was just wondering—”