Richard flung one exulting glance at his grandfather, for the sight was one to please the eyes of any man even if he had no such interest in the performers as these two had.  The elder man smiled, for he was very happy in these days, happier than he had been for a quarter of a century.

The music ceased with the last slow harp-tones, the ’cello’s earlier upflung bow waving in a gesture of triumph.

“Splendid, Rufus!” she commended.  “You never did it half so well.”

“She never did,” agreed a familiar voice from the other end of the room, and the sisters turned with a start.  Richard advanced down the room, Mr. Kendrick following more slowly.

“You look as cool as a pond-lily, love,” said Richard, “in spite of this July weather.”  His approving eyes regarded Roberta’s cheek at close range.  “Is it as cool as it looks?” he inquired, and placed his own cheek against it for an instant, regardless of the others present.

Roberta laid her hand in Mr. Kendrick’s, and the old man raised it to his lips, in a stately fashion he sometimes used.

“That was very beautiful music you were making,” he said.  “It seems a pity to bring it to an end.  Richard and I want you for a little drive, to show you something which interests us very much.  Will you go—­and will Ruth go, too?”

“Oh, do you really want me?” cried Ruth eagerly.

“Of course we want you, little sister,” Richard told her.

“I’ll get our hats,” offered Ruth, and was off.

So presently the four had taken their places in Mr. Kendrick’s car, its windows open, its luxurious winter cushioning covered with dust-proof, cool-feeling materials.  Richard sat opposite Roberta, and it was easy for her to see by the peculiar light in his eyes that there was something afoot which was giving him more than ordinary joy in her companionship.  His lips could hardly keep themselves in order, the tones of his voice were vibrant, his glance would have met hers every other minute if she would have allowed it.

The car rolled along a certain aristocratic boulevard leading out of the city, past one stately residence after another.  As the distance became greater from the centre of affairs, the places took on a more and more comfortable aspect, with less majesty of outline, and more home-likeness.  Surrounding grounds grew more extensive, the houses themselves lower spreading and more picturesque.  It was a favourite drive, but there were comparatively few abroad on this July morning.  Nearly every residence was closed, and the inhabitants away, though the beauty of the environment was as carefully preserved as if the owners were there to observe and enjoy.

“We’re the only people in the city this summer,” observed Richard, “except ninety-nine-hundredths of the population, which fails to count, of course, in the eyes of these residents.  Curious custom, isn’t it? to close such homes as these, just when they’re at their most attractive, and go off to a country house.  They’d be twice as comfortable at home, in this weather—­just as we are.  And this is the first summer I ever tried it!  Robin, that’s a pleasant place, isn’t it?”