As she sat there, some one tapped at the door and, running to open it, she found Caleb Patmore dressed in motor togs, his goggles pushed up on his forehead and a linen duster buttoned to his chin. “I suppose you’re in mourning,” he said whimsically, “or have you insulted Ernestine by suggesting it is madness to swelter in town another week while she interviews all the monument makers as to the most fetching feline memorial?” Thurley gave him a grateful expression. “It does seem foolish.” “I’ve been banished forever from her presence—because I sent no flowers,” he laughed. “However, she told me to get you and take you out for the day—she can’t keep her June day custom of visiting me at the lodge and you are appointed proxy. Come along, you look ready for a frolic.” Thurley raced into her bedroom and tilted her hat over one eye. “My word, it will be good to go somewhere. Imagine coming back from the mountains bubbling with excitement and finding the trip delayed for days. If it had been hours I would not have minded—but days—” “And you’ve never been across, have you?” he asked sympathetically. “Oh, never,” she answered in despair. “You don’t think Ernestine will give up the trip, do you?” “Not as bad as that, because she has persuaded Collin to wait the week as well. It might be worse. All set, are you? First, I’ve some errands and then we’ll shoot out to the lodge and I’ll feed you the best strawberries floating in the richest cream you ever tasted.” Thurley found bromidic enjoyment in Caleb’s country place. It was refreshing in its air of order. She felt that to be a commercialized artist had compensations, at least it enabled one to acquire what one wished of true art and appreciate it all the more by contrast with one’s own attempts! Returning to the hotel, she found a note from Ernestine saying she had “come out of it” sufficiently to engage passage for the following Tuesday and she hoped Thurley would never mention Silverheels to her nor invite tragedy herself by acquiring a pet. Thurley lay awake that hot summer’s night—the nearness of the vacation did not delight her over-much. Instead, she was thinking of herself as contrasted with Bliss, Collin, Ernestine, Caleb—even Polly. For there was a difference of birthright between these persons and herself. With a burning sense of discontent yet enforced honesty, Thurley realized that she had in herself a strain of sturdy peasantry; these others were more gently born—there was a difference in the way they spoke, dressed—she felt too superlative and over-insisting in comparison. She wondered whether in time she would acquire the atmosphere of gentle breeding which these persons possessed. Lissa had somewhat the same strain as herself—and she prayed she would not become like Lissa.