She was so undisguisedly glad to see him that he could scarcely have been human if he had not responded.  And she gave him, in that fortnight, a glimpse of a life that was new and distracting:  at times made him forget —­and he was willing to forget—­the lower forms of which it was the quintessence,—­the factories that hummed, the forges that flung their fires into the night in order that it might exist; the Dalton Streets that went without.  The effluvia from hot asphalt bore no resemblance to the salt-laden air that rattled the Venetian blinds of the big bedroom to which he was assigned.  Her villa was set high above the curving shore, facing a sheltered terrace-garden resplendent in its August glory; to seaward, islands danced in the haze; and behind the house, in the sunlight, were massed spruces of a brilliant arsenic green with purple cones.  The fluttering awnings were striped cardinal and white.

Nature and man seemed to have conspired to make this place vividly unreal, as a toy village comes painted from the shop.  There were no half-tones, no poverty—­in sight, at least; no litter.  On the streets and roads, at the casino attached to the swimming-pool and at the golf club were to be seen bewildering arrays of well-dressed, well-fed women intent upon pleasure and exercise.  Some of them gave him glances that seemed to say, “You belong to us,” and almost succeeded in establishing the delusion.  The whole effect upon Hodder, in the state of mind in which he found himself, was reacting, stimulating, disquieting.  At luncheons and dinners, he was what is known as a “success”—­always that magic word.

He resisted, and none so quick as women to scent resistance.  His very unbending attitude aroused their inherent craving for rigidity in his profession; he was neither plastic, unctuous, nor subservient; his very homeliness, redeemed by the eyes and mouth, compelled their attention.  One of them told Mrs. Larrabbee that that rector of hers would “do something.”

But what, he asked himself, was he resisting?  He was by no means a Puritan; and while he looked upon a reasonable asceticism as having its place in the faith that he professed, it was no asceticism that prevented a more complete acquiescence on his part in the mad carnival that surrounded him.

“I’m afraid you don’t wholly approve of Bar Harbor,” his hostess remarked; one morning.

“At first sight, it is somewhat staggering to the provincial mind,” he replied.

She smiled at him, yet with knitted brows.

“You are always putting me off—­I never can tell what you think.  And yet I’m sure you have opinions.  You think these people frivolous, of course.”

“Most of them are so,” he answered, “but that is a very superficial criticism.  The question is, why are they so?  The sight of Bar Harbor leads a stranger to the reflection that the carnival mood has become permanent with our countrymen, and especially our countrywomen.”