“Barry,” said she, closing the door behind her, “George is here!”

“Well, George has a right here,” said Barry, as the lady cast a cautious glance over her shoulder.

“But listen,” his cousin said excitedly; “he thinks he has sold the Holly house!”

“Gee whiz!” said Barry simply.

“To a Mrs. Burgoyne,” rushed on Mrs. Carew.  “She’s out there with George on the porch now; a widow, with two children, and she looks so sweet.  She knows the Hollys.  Oh, Barry, if she only takes it; such a dandy commission for George!  He’s terribly excited himself.  I can tell by the calm, bored way she’s talking about it.”

“Who is she?  Where’d she come from?” demanded Barry.

“From New York.  Her father died last year, in Washington, I think she said, and she wants to live quietly somewhere with the children.  Barry, will you be an angel?”

“Eventually, I hope to,” said Mr. Valentine, grinning, but she did not hear him.

“Could you, would you, take her over the place this afternoon, Barry?  She seems sure she wants it, and George feels he must get back to the office to see Tilden.  You know he’s going to sign for a whole floor of the Pratt Building to-day.  George can’t keep Tilden waiting, and it won’t be a bit hard for you, Barry.  George says to promise her anything.  She just wants to see about bathrooms, and so on.  Will you, Barry?”

“Sure I will,” said the obliging Barry.  And when Mrs. Carew asked him if he would like to go upstairs and brush up a little, he accepted the delicate reflection upon the state of his hair and hands, and said “sure” again.

CHAPTER III

Mrs. Burgoyne was a sweet-faced, fresh-looking woman about thirty-two or-three years old, with a quick smile, like a child’s, and blue eyes, set far apart, with a little lift at the corners, that, under level heavy brows, gave a suggestion of something almost Oriental to her face.  She was dressed simply in black, and a transparent black veil, falling from her wide hat and flung back, framed her face most becomingly in square crisp folds.

She and Barry presently walked up River Street in the mellow afternoon sunlight, and through the old wooden gates of the Holly grounds.  On every side were great high-flung sprays of overgrown roses, dusty and choked with weeds, ragged pepper tassels dragged in the grass, and where the path lay under the eucalyptus trees it was slippery with the dry, crescent-shaped leaves.  Bees hummed over rank poppies and tangled honeysuckle; once or twice a hummingbird came through the garden on some swift, whizzing journey, and there were other birds in the trees, little shy brown birds, silent but busy in the late afternoon.  Close to the house an old garden faucet dripped and dripped, and a noisy, changing group of the brown birds were bathing and flashing about it.  The old Hall stood on a rise of ground, clear of the trees, and bathed in sunshine.  It was an ugly house, following as it did the fashion of the late seventies; but it was not undignified, with its big door flanked by bay-windows and its narrow porch bounded by a fat wooden balustrade and heavy columns.  The porch and steps were weather-stained and faded, and littered now with fallen leaves and twigs.