This explained what, with Mary's keen eye for interiors, had puzzled her when they first arrived. She had expected to see more of the perfect taste and knowledge displayed in Farraday's office, instead of which the house, though dignified and hospitable, lacked all traces of the connoisseur. She noticed in particular the complete absence of any color sense. All the woodwork was varnished brown, the hangings were of dull brown velvet or dark tapestry, the carpets toneless. Her bedroom had been hung with white dimity, edged with crochet-work, but the furniture was of somber cherry, and the chintz of the couch-cover brown with yellow flowers. The library, into which she looked from where she sat, was furnished with high glass-doored bookcases, turned walnut tables, and stuffed chairs and couches with carved walnut rims. Down each window the shade was lowered half way, and the light was further obscured by lace curtains and heavy draperies of plain velvet. The pictures were mostly family portraits, with a few landscapes of doubtful merit. There were no flowers anywhere, except one small vase of daffodils upon the dinner table. According to all modern canons the house should have been hideous; but it was not. It held garnered with loving faith the memories of another day, as a bowl of potpourri still holds the sun of long dead summers. It fitted absolutely the quiet kindliness, the faded face and soft brown dress of its mistress. It was keyed to her, as Constance had understood, to the last detail. “Yes,” said Farraday, smiling down the table at his mother, “she could hardly bring herself to let me build my picture gallery on the end of the house--nothing but Christian charity enabled her to yield.” The old lady smiled back at her tall son almost like a sweetheart. “He humors me,” she said; “he knows I'm a foolish old woman who love, my nest as it was first prepared for me.” “Oh, I can so well understand that,” said Mary. “Do you mean to say, Mrs. Farraday,” interposed Stefan, “that you have lived in this one house, without changing it, all your married life?” She turned to him in simple surprise. “Why, of course; my husband chose it for me.” “Marvelous!” said Stefan, who felt that one week of those brown hangings would drive him to suicide. “Nix on the home-sweet-home business for yours, eh, Byrd?” threw in McEwan with his glint of a twinkle. “Boy,” interposed their little hostess, “why will thee always use such shocking slang? How can I teach Jamie English with his father's example before him?” She shook a tiny finger at the offender. “Ma'am, if I didn't sling the lingo, begging your pardon, in my office, they would think I was a highbrow, and then--good night Mac!” “Don't believe him, Mother,” said Farraday. “It isn't policy, but affection. He loves the magazine crowd, and likes to do as it does. Besides,” he smiled, “he's a linguistic specialist.” “You think slang is an indication of local patriotism?” asked Mary.