The pretty drawing-room of the Trevors—­young people from Albany, and cousins of Miss Anderson—­was curtained off at one end for a stage, and beyond the sliding doors which divided it in half were set chairs for the spectators.  People had come in whatever dress they liked; the men were mostly in morning coats; the ladies had generally made some attempt at evening toilet, but they joined in admiring Alice Pasmer’s costume, and one of them said that they would let it represent them all, and express what each might have done if she would.  There was not much time for their tributes; all the lamps were presently taken away and set along the floor in front of the curtain as foot-lights, leaving the company in a darkness which Mrs. Brinkley pronounced sepulchral.  She made her reproaches to the master of the house, who had effected this transposition of the lamps.  “I was just thinking some very pretty and valuable things about your charming cottage, Mr. Trevor:  a rug on a bare floor, a trim of varnished pine, a wall with half a dozen simple etchings on it, an open fire, and a mantelpiece without bric-a-brac, how entirely satisfying it all is!  And how it upbraids us for heaping up upholstery as we do in town!”

“Go on,” said the host.  “Those are beautiful thoughts.”

“But I can’t go on in the dark,” retorted Mrs. Brinkley.  “You can’t think in the dark, much less talk!  Can you, Mrs. Pasmer?” Mrs. Pasmer, with Alice next to her, sat just in front of Mrs. Brinkley.

“No,” she assented; “but if I could—­you can thick anywhere, Mrs. Brinkley—­Mrs. Trevor’s lovely house would inspire me to it.”

“Two birds with one stone—­thank you, Mrs. Pasmer, for my part of the compliment.  Pick yourself up, Mr. Trevor.”

“Oh, thank you, I’m all right,” said Trevor, panting after the ladies’ meanings, as a man must.  “I suppose thinking and talking in the dark is a good deal like smoking in the dark.”

“No; thinking and talking are not at all like smoking under any conditions.  Why in the world should they be?”

“Oh, I can’t get any fun out of a cigar unless I can see the smoke,” the host explained.

“Do you follow him, Mrs. Pasmer?”

“Yes, perfectly.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Pasmer,” said Trevor.

“I’ll get you to tell me how you did it some time,” said Mrs. Brinkley.  “But your house is a gem, Mr. Trevor.”

“Isn’t it?” cried Trevor.  “I want my wife to live here the year round.”  It was the Trevors’ first summer in their cottage, and the experienced reader will easily recognise his mood.  “But she’s such a worldly spirit, she won’t.”

“Oh, I don’t know about the year round.  Do you, Mrs. Pasmer?”

“I should,” said Alice, with the suddenness of youth, breaking into the talk which she had not been supposed to take any interest in.

“Is it proper to kiss a young lady’s hand?” said Trevor gratefully, appealing to Mrs. Brinkley.