“I was just coming to that,” said Farraday. “You would not care to be in the village, and any houses that might be for rent there would be expensive, I'm afraid. But it so happens there is a cottage on the edge of my property where my father's old farmer used to live. After his death I put a little furniture in the place, and have occasionally used it. But it is entirely unnecessary to me, and you are welcome to it for the summer if it would suit you. The rent would be nominal. I don't regard it commercially, it's too near my own place.” Mary flushed. “It's most awfully good of you,” she said, “but I don't know if we ought to accept. I'm afraid you may be making it convenient out of kindness.” “Mary, how British!” Stefan interrupted. He had taken lately so to labeling her small conventionalities. “Why accuse Mr. Farraday of altruistic insincerity? I think his description sounds delightful. Let's go tomorrow and see the cottage.” “If you will wait till Sunday,” Farraday smiled, “I shall be delighted to drive you out. It might be easier for Mrs. Byrd.” Mary again demurred on the score of giving unnecessary trouble, but Stefan overrode her, and Farraday was obviously pleased with the plan. It was arranged that he should call for them in his car the following Sunday, and that they should lunch with him and his mother. When he had left Stefan performed a little pas seul around the room. “Tra-la-la!” he sang; “birds, Mary, trees, water. No more chimney pots, no more walking up and down that tunnel of an avenue. See what it is to have admiring friends.” Mary flushed again. “Why will you spoil everything by putting it like that?” He stopped and patted her cheek teasingly. “It's me they admire, Mary, the great artist, creator of the famous Danaë,” and he skipped again, impishly. Mary was obliged to laugh. “You exasperating creature!” she said, and went to bed, while he ran up to the studio to pull out the folding easel and sketching-box of his old Brittany days. III When on the following Sunday morning Farraday drove up to the house, Mary was delighted to find Constance Elliot in the tonneau. “Theodore has begun golfing again, now that the snow has gone,” she greeted her, “so that I am a grass widow on holidays as well as all the week.” “Why don't you learn to play, too?” Mary asked, as they settled themselves, Stefan sitting in front with Farraday, who was driving. “Oh, for your English feet, my dear!” sighed Constance. “They are bigger than mine--I dare say so, as I wear fours--but you can walk on them. I was brought up to be vain of my extremities, and have worn two-inch heels too long to be good for more than a mile. The links would kill me. Besides,” she sighed again prettily, “dear Theodore is so much happier without me.” “How can you, Constance!” objected Mary.