Claude did not feel as eager to stop for Gladys as he had been a few moments before.  They were approaching the town now, and lighted windows shone softly across the blue whiteness of the snow.  Even in progressive Frankfort, the street lights were turned off on a night so glorious as this.  Mrs. Farmer and her daughter had a little white cottage down in the south part of the town, where only people of modest means lived.  “We must stop to see Gladys’ mother, if only for a minute,” Enid said as they drew up before the fence.  “She is so fond of company.”  Claude tied his team to a tree, and they went up to the narrow, sloping porch, hung with vines that were full of frozen snow.

Mrs. Farmer met them; a large, rosy woman of fifty, with a pleasant Kentucky voice.  She took Enid’s arm affectionately, and Claude followed them into the long, low sitting-room, which had an uneven floor and a lamp at either end, and was scantily furnished in rickety mahogany.  There, close beside the hard-coal burner, sat Bayliss Wheeler.  He did not rise when they entered, but said, “Hello, folks,” in a rather sheepish voice.  On a little table, beside Mrs. Farmer’s workbasket, was the box of candy he had lately taken out of his overcoat pocket, still tied up with its gold cord.  A tall lamp stood beside the piano, where Gladys had evidently been practising.  Claude wondered whether Bayliss actually pretended to an interest in music!  At this moment Gladys was in the kitchen, Mrs. Farmer explained, looking for her mother’s glasses, mislaid when she was copying a recipe for a cheese souffle.

“Are you still getting new recipes, Mrs. Farmer?” Enid asked her.  “I thought you could make every dish in the world already.”

“Oh, not quite!” Mrs. Farmer laughed modestly and showed that she liked compliments.  “Do sit down, Claude,” she besought of the stiff image by the door.  “Daughter will be here directly.”

At that moment Gladys Farmer appeared.

“Why, I didn’t know you had company, Mother,” she said, coming in to greet them.

This meant, Claude supposed, that Bayliss was not company.  He scarcely glanced at Gladys as he took the hand she held out to him.

One of Gladys’ grandfathers had come from Antwerp, and she had the settled composure, the full red lips, brown eyes, and dimpled white hands which occur so often in Flemish portraits of young women.  Some people thought her a trifle heavy, too mature and positive to be called pretty, even though they admired her rich, tulip-like complexion.  Gladys never seemed aware that her looks and her poverty and her extravagance were the subject of perpetual argument, but went to and from school every day with the air of one whose position is assured.  Her musicianship gave her a kind of authority in Frankfort.

Enid explained the purpose of their call.  “Claude has got out his old sleigh, and we’ve come to take you for a ride.  Perhaps Bayliss will go, too?”