“You’re going to sell Point Helen?” said Adelaide, politely regretful.  “Then I suppose we shan’t see your people here any more.  Your mother’ll no doubt spend most of her time abroad, now that Janet is married there.”

Ross did not answer immediately.  He was looking into the distance, his expression melancholy.  His abstraction gave Adelaide a chance to verify the impression she had got from a swift but femininely penetrating first glance.  Yes, he did look older; no, not exactly older—­sad, rather.  Evidently he was unhappy, distinctly unhappy.  And as handsome and as tasteful as ever—­the band of his straw hat, the flower in his buttonhole, his tie, his socks—­all in harmony; no ostentation, just the unerring, quiet taste of a gentleman.  What a satisfactory person to look at!  To be sure, his character—­However, character has nothing to do with the eye-pleasures, and they are undeniably agreeable.  Then there were his manners, and his mind—­such a man of the world!  Of course he wasn’t for one instant to be compared with Dory—­who was?  Still, it was a pity that Dory had a prejudice against showing all that he really was, a pity he had to be known to be appreciated—­that is, appreciated by the “right sort” of people.  Of course, the observant few could see him in his face, which was certainly distinguished—­yes, far more distinguished than Ross’s, if not so regularly handsome.

“I’ve been looking over the old place,” Ross was saying, “and I’ve decided to ask father to keep it.  Theresa doesn’t like it here; but I do, and I can’t bring myself to cut the last cords.  As I wandered over the place I found myself getting so sad and sentimental that I hurried away to escape a fit of the blues.”

“We’re accustomed to that sort of talk,” said Adelaide with a mocking smile in her delightful eyes.  “People who used to live here and come back on business occasionally always tell us how much more beautiful Saint X is than any other place on earth.  But they take the first train for Chicago or Cincinnati or anywhere at all.”

“So you find it dull here?”

“I?” Adelaide shrugged her charming shoulders slightly.  “Not so very.  My life is here—­the people, the things I’m used to.  I’ve a sense of peace that I don’t have anywhere else.”  She gazed dreamily away.  “And peace is the greatest asset.”

“The greatest asset,” repeated Ross absently.  “You are to be envied.”

“I think so,” assented she, a curious undertone of defiance in her voice.  She had a paniclike impulse to begin to talk of Dory; but, though she cast about diligently, she could find no way of introducing him that would not have seemed awkward—­pointed and provincially prudish.

“What are you reading?” he asked presently.