Nancy wore a broad blue hat which matched her eyes, one of her clear white dresses, and a silken scarf of the same blue as her hat.  She loved children, and as she stood in a circle of them all the afternoon, untiring, eager—­bending down to them, hooking the fish on the dangling line—­handing out the prizes, smiling into the flushed eager faces, helping the very littlest ones to achieve a catch, I sat in a chair not far away from her and watched.  I saw Anthony come and go, urging her to let some one else take her place, pressing a dozen reasons upon her for desertion of her task, and coming back, when she refused, to complain to me: 

“Such things are a deadly bore.”

“Not to Nancy.”

“But they used to be.  She’s changed, Elizabeth.”

“Beautifully changed.”

“I am not sure.  She was always such, a good sport.”

“And isn’t she now?”

“She is different,” he caught himself up, “but of course—­adorable.”

Mimi Sears joined us, and she and Anthony went off together.  Bob Needham hung around Nancy until she sent him away.  At last the hour arrived for the open-air play which was a special attraction, and the crowds surged toward the inclosure.  The booths were deserted, and only one rapturous child remained by the fish pond.

Nancy sat down and lifted the baby to her lap.  She had taken off her hat, and her blue scarf fell about her.  Something tugged at my heart as I looked at her.  With that little head in the hollow of her arm she was the eternal mother.

I saw Anthony approaching.  He stopped, and I caught his words.  “You must come now, Nancy.  I am saving a seat for you.”

She shook her head, and looked down at the child.  “I told his nurse to go and he is almost asleep.”

He flung himself away from her and came over to me.  “I have good seats for both of you in the enclosure.  But Nancy won’t go.”

I rose and went with him, although I should have been content to sit there by the fish pond and feast my eyes on Nancy.

“It is perfectly silly of her to stay,” Anthony fumed as we walked on together.

“But she loves the children.”

“I hate children.”

I am sure that he did not mean it.  What he hated was the fact that the child had for the moment held Nancy from him.  It was as if, looking forward into the future, he could see like moments, and set himself against the thought of any interruption of what might be otherwise an untrammeled and independent partnership.  He had, I think, little jealousy where men were concerned.  He was willing to give Nancy the reins and let her go, believing that she would inevitably come back to him.  He was not, perhaps, so willing to trust her with ties which might prove more absorbing than himself.

If I had not had Olaf’s letter, I might not have weighed Anthony’s attitude so carefully, but against those burning words and their comprehension of the divinity and beauty of my Nancy’s nature, Anthony’s querulous complaint struck cold.