“Certainly,” said Farraday. “If we love a place we adopt its customs.” “That's quite true,” Stefan agreed. “In Paris I used the worst argot of the quarter, but I've always spoken straightforward English because the only slang I knew in my own tongue reminded me of a place I loathed.” “Stefan used to be dreadfully unpatriotic, Mrs. Farraday,” explained Mary, “but he is outgrowing it.” “Am I?” Stefan asked rather pointedly. “Art,” said McEwan grandly, “is international; Byrd belongs to the world.” He raised his glass of lemonade, and ostentatiously drank Stefan's health. The others laughed at him, and the conversation veered. Mary absorbed herself in trying to draw out the bashful Jamie, and Stefan listened while his hostess talked on her favorite theme, that of her son, James Farraday. They had coffee in the picture gallery, a beautiful room which Farraday had extended beyond the drawing-room, and furnished with perfect examples of the best Colonial period. It was hung almost entirely with the work of Americans, in particular landscapes by Inness, Homer Martin, and George Munn, while over the fireplace was a fine mother and child by Mary Cassatt. For the first time since their arrival Stefan showed real interest, and leaving the others, wandered round the room critically absorbing each painting. “Well, Farraday,” he said at the end of his tour, “I must say you have the best of judgment. I should have been mighty glad to paint one or two of those myself.” His tone indicated that more could not be said. Meanwhile, Mary could hardly wait for the real object of their expedition, the little house. When at last the car was announced, Mrs. Farraday's bonnet and cloak brought by a maid, and everybody, Jamie included, fitted into the machine, Mary felt her heart beating with excitement. Were they going to have a real little house for their baby? Was it to be born out here by the sea, instead of in the dusty, overcrowded city? She strained her eyes down the road. “It's only half a mile,” called Farraday from the wheel, “and a mile and a half from the station.” They swung down a hill, up again, round a bend, and there was a grassy plateau overlooking the water, backed by a tree-clad slope. Nestling under the trees, but facing the bay, was just such a little house as Mary had admired along the road, low and snug, shingled on walls and roof, painted white, with green shutters and a little columned porch at the front door. A small barn stood near; a little hedge divided house from lane; evidences of a flower garden showed under the windows. “Oh, what a duck!” Mary exclaimed. “Oh, Stefan!” She could almost have wept. Farraday helped her down. “Mrs. Byrd,” said he with his most kindly smile, “here is the key. Would you like to unlock the door yourself?”