“Look at her pair of love-birds sidling along the curtain pole, as tame as humans! Where did you find that wooden cage? And that white cotton dress? You smell of lavender and an ironing-board! Oh, dear,” she began again, “driving is very wearing, and I should like a cocktail, but I must have milk. Milk, my dear Mary, is the only conceivable beverage in this house. Have you a cow? You ought to have a cow--a brindled cow--also a lamb; 'Mary had,' et cetera. My dear, stop me. Enthusiasm converts me into an 'agreeable rattle,' as they used to call our great-grandmothers.” “Subdue yourself with this,” laughed Mary, holding out the desired glass of milk. “Miss Berber, can I get anything for you?” Felicity by this time was unwrapped, and had disposed herself upon a window-seat, her back to the light. “Wine or water, Mrs. Byrd; I do not drink milk,” she breathed, lighting a cigarette. “We have some Chianti; nothing else, I'm afraid,” said Mary, and a glass of this the designer deigned to accept, together with a little yellow cake set with currants, and served upon a pewter plate. “I see, Mrs. Byrd,” Felicity murmured, as Constance in momentary silence sipped her milk, “that you comprehend the first law of decoration for woman--that her accessories must be a frame for her type. I--how should I appear in a room like this?” She gave a faint shrug. “At best, a false tone in a chromatic harmony. You are entirely in key.” Her eyelids drooped; she exhaled a long breath of smoke. “Very well thought out--unusually clever--for a layman,” she uttered, and was still, with the suggestion of a sibyl whose oracle has ceased to speak. Mary tried not to find her manner irritating, but could not wholly dispel the impression that Miss Berber habitually patronized her. She laughed pleasantly. “I'm afraid I can't claim to have been guided by any subtle theories--I have merely collected together the kind of things I am fond of.” “Mary decorates with her heart, Felicity, you with your head,” said Constance, setting down her empty tumbler. “I'm afraid I should find the heart too erratic a guide to art. Knowledge, Mrs. Byrd, knowledge must supplement feeling,” said Felicity, with a gesture of finality. “Really!” answered Mary, falling back upon her most correct English manner. There was nothing else to say. “She is either cheeky, or a bromide,” she thought. “Felicity,” exclaimed Constance, “don't adopt your professional manner; you can't take us in. You know you are an outrageous humbug.” “Dear Connie,” replied the other with the ghost of a smile, “you are always so amusing, and so much more wide awake in the morning than I am.” Conversation languished for a minute, Constance having embarked on a cake. For some reason which she could not analyze, Mary felt in no great hurry to call Stefan from the barn, should he be there. Felicity rose. “May we not see your garden, Mrs. Byrd?”