She must see the grave of Captain Moses Rice.  And on this legitimate errand she one day carried her fluttering attractiveness and patchouly into the Maitland house.  Mrs. Maitland was civil, but no more.  Alice was civil but reserved—­a great many people, she said, came to see the graves in the old orchard.  But Mrs. Mavick was not a bit abashed.  She expressed herself delighted with everything.  It was such a rest, such a perfectly lovely country, and everybody was so hospitable!  And Aunt Hepsy had so interested her in the history of the region!  But it was difficult to get her talk responded to.

However, when Miss Patience came in she made better headway.  She had heard so much of Miss Maitland’s apartments.  She herself was interested in decorations.  She had tried to do something in her New York home.  But there were so many ideas and theories, and it was so hard to be natural and artificial at the same time.  She had no doubt she could get some new ideas from Miss Maitland.  Would it be asking too much to see her apartments?  She really felt like a stranger nowhere in Rivervale.  Patience was only too delighted, and took her into her museum of natural history, art, religion, and vegetation.

“She might have gone to the grave-yard without coming into the house,” Alice remarked.

“Oh, well,” said her mother, “I think she is very amusing.  You shouldn’t be so exclusive, Alice.”

“Mother, I do believe she paints.”

With Patience, Mrs. Mavick felt on surer ground.

“How curious, how very curious and delightful it is!  Such knowledge of nature, such art in arrangement.”

“Oh, I just put them up,” said Patience, “as I thought they ought by rights to be put up.”

“That’s it.  And you have combined everything here.  You have given me an idea.  In our house we have a Japan room, and an Indian room, and a Chinese room, and an Otaheite, and I don’t know what—­Egyptian, Greek, and not one American, not a really American.  That is, according to American ideas, for you have everything in these two rooms.  I shall write to Mr. Mavick.” (Mr. Mavick never received the letter.)

When she came away it was with a profusion of thanks, and repeated invitations to drop in at the inn.  Alice accompanied her to the first stone that marked the threshold of the side door, and was bowing her away, when Mr. Philip swung over the fence by the wood-shed, with a shot-gun on his shoulder, and swinging in his left hand a gray squirrel by its bushy tail, and was immediately in front of the group.

“Ah!” involuntarily from Mrs. Mavick.  An introduction was inevitable.

“My cousin, Mr. Burnett, Mrs. Mavick.”  Philip raised his cap and bowed.

“A hunter, I see.”

“Hardly, madam.  In vacations I like to walk in the woods with a gun.”

“Then you are not—­”

“No,” said Philip, smiling, “unfortunately I cannot do this all the time.”