George, for example, liked to take long motoring trips out of the city, on warm summer evenings.  He ran his own car, and was never so happy as when Mary was on the driver’s seat beside him, where he could amuse her with the little news of the day, or repeat to her long and, to Mary, unintelligible business conversations in which he had borne a part.

But Mamma’s return spoiled all this.  Obviously, the little lady couldn’t be left to bounce about alone in the tonneau.  If Mary joined her there, George would sit silently, immovably, in the front seat, chewing his cigar, his eyes on the road.  Only when they had a friend or two with them did Mary enjoy these drives.

Mamma had an unlucky habit of scattering George’s valuable books carelessly about the house, and George was fussy about his books.  And she would sometimes amuse herself by trying roll after roll on the piano-player, until George, perhaps trying to read in the adjoining library, was almost frantic.  And she mislaid his telephone directory, and took telephone messages for him that she forgot to deliver, and insisted upon knowing why he was late for dinner, in spite of Mary’s warning, “Let him change and get his breath Mamma, dear,—­he’s exhausted.  What does it matter, anyway?”

Sometimes Mary’s heart would ache for the little, resourceless lady, drifting aimlessly through her same and stupid days.  Mamma had always been spoiled, loved, amused,—­it was too much to expect strength and unselfishness of her now.  And at other times, when she saw the tired droop to George’s big shoulders, and the gallant effort he made to be sweet to Mamma, George who was so good, and so generous, and who only asked to have his wife and home quietly to himself after the long day, Mary’s heart would burn with longing to put her arms about him, and go off alone with him somewhere, and smooth the wrinkles from. his forehead, and let him rest.

One warm Sunday in mid-July they all went down to Long Island to see the rosy, noisy babies.  It was a happy day for Mary.  George was very gracious, Mamma charming and complaisant.  The weather was perfection, and the children angelic.  They shared the noonday dinner with little George and Richard and Mary, and motored home through the level light of late afternoon.  Slowly passing through a certain charming colony of summer homes, they were suddenly hailed.

Out from a shingled bungalow, and across a velvet lawn streamed three old friends of Mamma’s, Mrs. Law’nce Arch’bald, and her daughter, ’Lizabeth Sarah, who was almost Mamma’s age, and ’Lizabeth Sarah’s husband, Harry Fairfax.  These three were rapturously presented to the Venables by Mrs. Honeywell, and presently they all went up to the porch for tea.

Mary thought, and she could see George thought, that it was very pleasant to discuss the delicious Oolong and Maryland biscuit, and Southern white fruit-cake, while listening to Mamma’s happy chatter with her old friends.  The old negress who served tea called Mamma “chile,” and Mrs. Archibald, an aristocratic, elderly woman, treated her as if she were no more than a girl.  Mary thought she had never seen her mother so charming.