But in all its history this glorious old house has never been a happier home, or a more interesting one, than it is to-day.  For now it is the residence of four young ladies, sisters, who, because of their divergent tastes and their complete congeniality, continually suggest the fancy that they have stepped out of a novel.  One of them is the Efficient Sister, who runs the automobile and the farm of two or three hundred acres, sells the produce, keeps the accounts, and pays off the men; another is the Domestic Sister, who conducts the admirable menage; another is the Sociological and Artistic Sister, who draws and plays and thinks about the masses; while the fourth is the Sprightly Sister Who Likes to Dance.

Never had my companion or I seen a more charming, a more varied household, an establishment more self-contained, more complete in all things from vegetables to brains.  No need to leave the place for anything.  Yet if one wished to look about the country, there was the motor, and there were the saddle horses in the stable—­all of them members of old Virginian families—­and there were four equestrian young ladies.

“Would you-all like to ride to-day?” one of the sisters asked us at breakfast.

To my companion, horseback riding is comparatively a new thing.  He had taken it up a year before—­partly because of appeals from me, partly because of changes which he had begun to notice in his topography.  Compared with him I was a veteran horseman, for it was then a year and three months since I had begun my riding lessons.

I said that I would like to ride, but he declared that he must stay behind and make a drawing.

Sometimes, in the past, I had thought I would prefer to make my living as a painter or an illustrator than as a writer, but at this juncture it occurred to me that, though the writer’s medium of expression is a less agreeable one than that of the graphic artist, it is much pleasanter to ride about with pretty girls than to sit alone and draw a picture of their house.  I began to feel sorry for my companion:  the thought of our riding gaily off, and leaving him at work, made him seem pathetic.  My appeals, however, made no impression upon his inflexible sense of duty, and I soon ceased trying to persuade him to join us, and began to speculate, instead, as to whether all four sisters would accompany me, or whether only two or three of them would go—­and if so, which.

“What kind of horse do you like?” asked one.

Such a question always troubles me.  It is embarrassing.  Imagine saying to a young lady who likes to ride thoroughbred hunters across fields and over ditches and fences:  “I should like a handsome horse, one that will cause me to appear to advantage, one that looks spirited but is in reality tame.”

Such an admission would be out of character with the whole idea of riding.  One could hardly make it to one’s most intimate male friend, let alone to a girl who knows all about withers and hocks and pastern joints, and talks about “paneled country,” and takes the “Racing Calendar.”