Janet laughed.  “It’s a joke on them, if they did.  I wonder what they’d think of Hampton, if they could see it now.  I counted up once, just to tease father—­he’s the seventh generation from Ebenezer Bumpus, who came to Dolton.  Well, I proved to him he might have one hundred and twenty-six other ancestors besides Ebenezer and his wife.”

“That must have jarred him some,” was Ditmar’s comment.  “Great old man, your father.  I’ve talked to him—­he’s a regular historical society all by himself.  Well, there must be something in it, this family business.  Now, you can tell he comes from fine old American stock-he looks it.”

Janet flushed.  “A lot of good it does!” she exclaimed.

“I don’t know,” said Ditmar.  “It’s something to fall back on—­a good deal.  And he hasn’t got any of that nonsense in his head about labour unions—­he’s a straight American.  And you look the part,” he added.  “You remind me—­I never thought of it until now—­you remind me of a picture of Priscilla I saw once in a book of poems Longfellow’s, you know.  I’m not much on literature, but I remember that, and I remember thinking she could have me.  Funny isn’t it, that you should have come along?  But you’ve got more ginger than the woman in that picture.  I’m the only man that ever guessed it isn’t that so?” he asked jealously.

“You’re wonderful!” retorted Janet, daringly.

“You just bet I am, or I couldn’t have landed you,” he asserted.  “You’re chock full of ginger, but it’s been all corked up.  You’re so prim-so Priscilla.”  He was immensely pleased with the adjective he had coined, repeating it.  “It’s a great combination.  When I think of it, I want to shake you, to squeeze you until you scream.”

“Then please don’t think of it,” she said.

“That’s easy!” he exclaimed, mockingly.

At a quarter to one they entered a sleepy village reminiscent of a New England of other days.  The long street, deeply shaded in summer, was bordered by decorous homes, some of which had stood there for a century and a half; others were of the Mansard period.  The high school, of strawberry-coloured brick, had been the pride and glory of the Kingsbury of the ’70s:  there were many churches, some graceful and some hideous.  At the end of the street they came upon a common, surrounded by stone posts and a railing, with a monument in the middle of it, and facing the common on the north side was a rambling edifice with many white gables, in front of which, from an iron arm on a post, swung a quaint sign, “Kingsbury Tavern.”  In revolutionary and coaching days the place bad been a famous inn; and now, thanks to the enterprise of a man who had foreseen the possibilities of an era of automobiles, it had become even more famous.  A score of these modern vehicles were drawn up before it under the bare, ancient elms; there was a scene of animation on the long porch, where guests strolled up and down or sat in groups in the rocking-chairs which the mild weather had brought forth again.  Ditmar drew up in line with the other motors, and stopped.