Another thing that she had lived long enough to notice was the different effect which different people had upon her.  Although she preserved, or tried to preserve, the same tranquil air of interest toward them all—­a tranquillity and interest which generally required no effort—­some of the people she met in the day’s work subconsciously aroused a feeling of antagonism in her, some secretly amused her, some irritated her, some made her feel under a strain, and some even had the queer, vampirish effect of leaving her washed out and listless—­psychological puzzles which she had never been able to solve.  But with Archey she always felt restful and contented, smiling at him and talking to him without exertion or repression and—­using one of those old-fashioned phrases which are often the last word in description—­always “feeling at home” with him, and never as though he had to be thought of as company.

They climbed the hill together and began inspecting the bungalows.

“I wouldn’t mind living in one of these myself,” said Archey.  “What are you going to do with them?”

But that was a secret.  Mary smiled inscrutably and led the way into the kitchen.

I have called it a kitchen, but it was just as much a living room, a dining room.  A Pullman table had been built in between two of the windows and on each side of this was a settee.  At the other end of the room was a gas range.  When Wally opened the refrigerator door he saw that it could be iced from the porch.  Electric light fixtures hung from the ceiling and the walls.

“Going to have an artists’ colony up here?” teased Archey, and looking around in admiration he repeated, “No, sir!  I wouldn’t mind living in one of these houses myself—­”

They went into the next room—­the sitting room proper—­unusual for its big bay window, its built-in cupboards and bookshelves.  Then came the bathroom and three bed-rooms, all in true bungalow style on one floor.

When they had first entered, Mary and Archey had chatted freely enough, but gradually they had grown quieter.  There is probably no place in the world so contributive to growing intimacy as a new empty house—­when viewed by a young man and a younger woman who have known each other for many years—­

The place seems alive, hushed, expectant, watching every move of its visitors, breathing suggestions to them—­

“Do you like it?” asked Mary, breaking the silence.

Archey nodded, afraid for the moment to trust himself to speak.  They looked at each other and, almost in haste, they went outside.

“He’ll never get over that trick of blushing,” thought Mary.  At the end of the hall was a closet door with a mirror set in it.  She caught sight of her own cheeks.  “Oh, dear!” she breathed to herself.  “I wonder if I’m catching it, too!”

Once outside, Archey began talking with the concentration of a man who is trying to put his mind on something else.