Country houses were opening throughout the Western Hemisphere; Long Island stirred from its long winter lethargy, stung into active life by the Oyster Bay mosquito; town houses closed; terrace, pillar, portico, and windows were already being boarded over; lace curtains came down; textiles went to the cleaners; the fresh scent of camphor and lavender lingered in the mellow half-light of rooms where furniture and pictures loomed linen-shrouded and the polished floor echoed every footstep.

In the sunny gloom of the Seagrave house Geraldine found a grateful retreat from the inspiring glare and confused racket of her first winter; ample time for rest, reverie, and reflection, with only a few intimates to break her meditations, only informality to reckon with, and plenty of leisure to plan for the summer.

Around the house, trees and rhododendrons were now in freshest bloom, flower-beds fragrant, grass tenderly emerald.  The moving shadows of maple leaves patterned the white walls of her bedroom; wind-blown gusts of wistaria fragrance, from the long, grapelike, violet-tinted bunches swaying outside the window, puffed out her curtains every morning.

At night subtler perfumes stole upward from the dark garden; the roar of traffic from the avenues was softened; carriage lights in the purpling dusk of the Park moved like firebugs drifting through level wooded vistas.  Across the reservoir lakes the jewelled night-zone of the West Side sparkled, reflected across the water in points of trembling flame; south, a gemmed bar of topaz light, upright against the sky, marked the Plaza; beyond, sprinkled into space like constellations dusting endless depths, the lights of the city receded far as the eye could see.

In the zenith the sky is always tinted with the strange, sinister night-glow of the metropolis, red as fire-licked smoke when fog from the bay settles, pallid as the very shadow of light when nights are clear; but it is always there—­always will be there after the sun goes down into the western seas, and the eyes of the monstrous iron city burn on through the centuries.

* * * * *

One morning late in April Geraldine Seagrave rode up under the porte-cochere with her groom, dismounted, patted her horse sympathetically, and regarded with concern the limping animal as the groom led him away to the stables.  Then she went upstairs.

To Kathleen, who was preparing to go out, she said: 

“I had scarcely entered the Park, my dear, when poor Bibi pulled up lame.  No, I told Redmond not to saddle another; I suppose Duane will be furious.  Where are you going?”

“I don’t know.  Shall I wait for you?  I’ve ordered a victoria.”

“No, thanks.  You look so pretty this morning, Kathleen.  Sometimes you appear younger than I do.  Scott was pig enough to say so the other day when I had a headache.  It’s true enough, too,” she added, smiling.