Barbara, whose husband’s uncle was a lord, who had been presented at the English court, and whose mail was peppered with coats-of-arms, nursed her infant proudly and publicly, and was heard to mention to old friends—­not always women either—­social events that had occurred “just before Geordie came” or “when I was expecting Arthur.”  Her rather thin face would brighten to its old beauty when Geordie and Arthur, stamping in, bare kneed and glowing, recounted to her the joys of Sausalito, and in evening dress she was quite magnificent, and somehow seemed more at ease than American women ever do.  Her efficiency left even the capable Julia gasping and outdistanced.  Barbara was equal to every claim husband, children, family, and friends could make.  She came down to an eight o’clock breakfast, a chattering little son on each side of her, announcing briskly that the tiny Malcolm had already had his bath.  She started the little people on the day’s orderly round of work and play while opening letters and chatting with her father; earned the housemaid’s eternal affection by personally dusting the big drawing-room and replacing the flowers; answered the telephone in her pleasantly modulated voice; faced her husband during his ten o’clock breakfast, and discussed the foreign news with him in a manner Julia thought extraordinarily clever; and at eleven came with the baby into her mother’s sunny morning-room for a little feminine gossip over Malcolm’s second breakfast.  Barbara never left a note unanswered, no old friend was neglected; tea hour always found the shady side porch full of callers, children strayed from the candy on the centre table to the cakes near the teapot, the doctor’s collie lay panting in the doorway.  Barbara’s rich soft laugh, the new tones that her voice had gained in the past years, somehow dominated everything.  Julia felt a vague new restlessness and discontent assail her at this contact with Barbara’s full and happy life.  Perhaps Barbara suspected it, for her generous inclusion of Julia, when plans of any sort were afoot, knew no limit.  She won Anna’s little heart with a thousand affectionate advances; loved to have the glowing beauty of the little girl as a foil for her own dark-haired boys.

“You’re so busy—­and necessary—­and unself-conscious, Barbara,” Julia said, “you make other women seem such fools!”

It was a heavenly July afternoon, and the two were following Richie and the children down one of the mountain roads above Mill Valley.  Barbara, who had acquired an Englishwoman’s love of nursery picnics, had lured her husband to join them to-day, and Julia had been pleasantly surprised to see how fatherly the Captain was with his small boys, how willing to go for water and tie dragging little shoe laces.  But presently the soldier grew restless, stared about him for a few moments, and finally decided to leave the ladies and children to Richie’s escort, and walk to the summit of the mountain and back, as a means of working off some excess of energy and gaining an appetite for dinner.  He apparently did not hear Barbara’s warning not to be late, and her entreaty to be careful, merely giving her a stolid glance in answer to these eager suggestions, and remarking to the boys, who begged to accompany him a little way:  “Naow, naow, I tell you you carn’t, so don’t make little arsses of yourselves blabbering abaout it!”