“But it’s curious she never has taken the trouble to undeceive us,” said Mrs. White beginning to fit on an immaculate pair of white gloves, finger by finger.

“Why—­you’ll see!—­She never dreamed we thought she was anything but one of ourselves.”  Mrs. Brown predicted.  “Why should she?  When did she ever speak of money, or take the least interest in money?  She never speaks of it.  She says ’I can’t afford the time, or I can’t afford the effort,’ that’s what counts with her.  Doesn’t it, Barry?”

“Barry, do you really suppose—­” Mrs. Carew was beginning, as she turned to the doorway where he had been standing.

But Barry had gone.

CHAPTER XIX

Barry went straight up to the Hall, but Sidney was not there.  Joanna and Ellen, busily murmuring over “Flower Ladies” on the wide terrace steps, told him that Mother was to be late to supper, and, with obviously forced hospitality and one eye upon their little families of inverted roses and hollyhocks, asked him to wait.  Barry thanked them, but couldn’t wait.

He went like a man in a dream down River Street, past gardens that glowed with fragrant beauty, and under the great trees and the warm, sunset sky.  And what a good world it seemed to be alive in, and what a friendly village in which to find work and love and content.  A dozen returning householders, stopping at their gates, wanted the news of his venture, a dozen freshly-clad, interested women, watering lawns in the shade, called out to wish him good fortune.  And always, before his eyes, the thought of the vanished millions danced like a star.  She was not infinitely removed, she was not set apart by great fortune, she was only the sweetest and best of women, to be wooed and won like any other.  He ran upstairs and flung open the door of the little bare new office of the mail, like an impetuous boy.  There was no one there.  But a wide white hat with a yellow rose pinned on it hung above the new oak desk in the corner, and his heart rose at the sight.  His own desk had an improvised drop light hung over it; he lowered the typewriter from his cramped arm upon a mass of clippings and notes.  Beyond this room was the great bare loft, where two or three oily men were still toiling in the fading light over the establishing of the old star press.  Sashes had been taken from one of the big windows to admit the entrance of the heavier parts; thick pulley ropes dangled at the sill.  Great unopened bundles of gray paper filled the center of the floor, a slim amused youth was putting the finishing touches to a telephone on the wall, and Sidney, bare-headed, very business-like and keenly interested, was watching everybody and making suggestions.  She greeted Barry with a cheerful wave of the hand.

“There you are!” she said, relievedly.  “Come and see what you think of this.  Do you know this office is going to be much nicer than the old one?  How goes everything with you?”