“Babies are darling,” agreed Susan, feeling elderly and unmarried.

“Yes, and when you’re married,” Isabel said dreamily, “they seem so--so sacred—­but you’ll see yourself, some day, I hope.  Hark!”

And she was gone again, only to come back.  It was as if Isabel gained fresh pleasure in her new estate by seeing it afresh through Susan’s eyes.  She had the longing of the bride to give her less-experienced friend just a glimpse of the new, delicious relationship.

Left alone at last, Susan settled herself luxuriously in bed, a heap of new books beside her, soft pillows under her head, a great light burning over her shoulder, and the fragrance of the summer night stealing in through the wide-opened windows.  She gave a great sigh of relief, wondered, between desultory reading, at how early an hour she could decently excuse herself in the morning.

“I suppose that, if I fell heir to a million, I might build a house like this, and think that a string of pearls was worth buying,” said Susan to herself, “but I don’t believe I would!”

Isabel would not let her hurry away in the morning; it was too pleasant to have so gracious and interested a guest, so sympathetic a witness to her own happiness.  She and Susan lounged through the long morning, Susan admired the breakfast service, admired the rugs, admired her host’s character.  Nothing really interested Isabel, despite her polite questions and assents, but Isabel’s possessions, Isabel’s husband, Isabel’s genius for housekeeping and entertaining.  The gentlemen appeared at noon, and the four went to the near-by hotel for luncheon, and here Susan saw Peter Coleman again, very handsome and gay, in white flannels, and very much inclined toward the old relationship with her.  Peter begged them to spend the afternoon with him, trying the new motor-car, and Isabel was charmed to agree.  Susan agreed too, after a hesitation she did not really understand in herself.  What pleasanter prospect could anyone have?

While they were loitering over their luncheon, in the shaded, delightful coolness of the lunch-room, suddenly Dolly Ripley, over-dressed, gay and talkative as always, came up to their table.

She greeted the others negligently, but showed a certain enthusiasm for Susan.

“Hello, Isabel,” said Dolly, “I saw you all come in—­’he seen that a mother and child was there!’”

This last was the special phrase of the moment.  Susan had heard it forty times within the past twenty-four hours, and was at no pains to reconcile it to this particular conversation.

“But you, you villain—­where’ve you been?” pursued Dolly, to Susan, “why don’t you come down and spend a week with me?  Do you see anything of our dear friend Emily in these days?”

“Emily’s abroad,” said Susan, and Peter added: 

“With Ella and Mary Peacock—­’he seen that a mother and child was there!’”