Back to the house they came at last to luncheon, and there, sitting in the beautiful dining-room, so cool, so spacious, so singularly tasteful in every detail, they gazed upon each other in a delight which was tinged with pain. Such perfection of appointment, such service, all for them (two beggars), was more than embarrassing; it provoked a sense of guilt. The pretty, low-voiced, soft-soled maid came and went, bringing exquisite food in the daintiest dishes (enough food for six), anticipating every want, like the fairy of the story-books. "Mother," said the youth, "this is a story!" Mrs. Ollnee was accustomed to the splendor of Mrs. Joyce's house, but she was almost as much moved as Victor. She perceived the difference between the old-world simplicity of this flawless establishment and the lavish, tasteless hospitality of men like Pettus. Who had planned and organized this wide-walled, low-toned room, this marvelously effective cuisine? How was it possible for such service to go on during the master's absence with apparently the same unerring precision of detail? These questions remained unanswered, and they rose at last with a sense of having been, for the moment at least, in the seats of those who command the earth wisely. Hardly were they returned to their hammocks on the porch when a swiftly driven car turned in at the gate. "It is Louise!" exclaimed Mrs. Ollnee. "And Leo!" added Victor. With streaming veils the travelers swept up to the carriage steps covered with dust, yet smiling. "How are you?" called Mrs. Joyce; and then with true motor spirit, addressed the driver: "What's the time, Denis?" "Two hours and ten minutes from North Avenue." "Not so bad, considering the roads." Leo had sprung out and was throwing off her cloak and veil. "I hope we're not too late for luncheon. Mr. Bartol has the _best_ cook, and I'm famished." Her coming swept Victor back into his other and normal self, and he took charge of her with a mingling of reverence and audacity which charmed her. He went out into the dining-room with her and sat beside her while she ate. "I hope you're going to stay," he said, earnestly. "Stay! Of course we'll stay. It's hot as July in the city--always is with the wind from the southwest. Isn't it heavenly out here?" "Heavenly is the word; but who did it? Who organized it?" "Mrs. Bartol. She had the best taste of any one--and her way with the servants was beyond imitation. They all worship her memory." "I can't make myself believe I deserve all this," he said. "Your coming puts the frosting on my bun." It was as if some new and utterly different spirit, or band of them, had come with this glowing girl. She radiated the vitality and the melody of youth. Without being boisterous or silly, she filled the house with laughter. "There's something about Hazeldean that always makes me happy. I don't know why," she said.