“Gad,” Archer heard Lawrence Lefferts say, “not one of the lot holds the bow as she does”; and Beaufort retorted:  “Yes; but that’s the only kind of target she’ll ever hit.”

Archer felt irrationally angry.  His host’s contemptuous tribute to May’s “niceness” was just what a husband should have wished to hear said of his wife.  The fact that a coarseminded man found her lacking in attraction was simply another proof of her quality; yet the words sent a faint shiver through his heart.  What if “niceness” carried to that supreme degree were only a negation, the curtain dropped before an emptiness?  As he looked at May, returning flushed and calm from her final bull’s-eye, he had the feeling that he had never yet lifted that curtain.

She took the congratulations of her rivals and of the rest of the company with the simplicity that was her crowning grace.  No one could ever be jealous of her triumphs because she managed to give the feeling that she would have been just as serene if she had missed them.  But when her eyes met her husband’s her face glowed with the pleasure she saw in his.

Mrs. Welland’s basket-work pony-carriage was waiting for them, and they drove off among the dispersing carriages, May handling the reins and Archer sitting at her side.

The afternoon sunlight still lingered upon the bright lawns and shrubberies, and up and down Bellevue Avenue rolled a double line of victorias, dog-carts, landaus and “vis-a-vis,” carrying well-dressed ladies and gentlemen away from the Beaufort garden-party, or homeward from their daily afternoon turn along the Ocean Drive.

“Shall we go to see Granny?” May suddenly proposed.  “I should like to tell her myself that I’ve won the prize.  There’s lots of time before dinner.”

Archer acquiesced, and she turned the ponies down Narragansett Avenue, crossed Spring Street and drove out toward the rocky moorland beyond.  In this unfashionable region Catherine the Great, always indifferent to precedent and thrifty of purse, had built herself in her youth a many-peaked and cross-beamed cottage-orne on a bit of cheap land overlooking the bay.  Here, in a thicket of stunted oaks, her verandahs spread themselves above the island-dotted waters.  A winding drive led up between iron stags and blue glass balls embedded in mounds of geraniums to a front door of highly-varnished walnut under a striped verandah-roof; and behind it ran a narrow hall with a black and yellow star-patterned parquet floor, upon which opened four small square rooms with heavy flock-papers under ceilings on which an Italian house-painter had lavished all the divinities of Olympus.  One of these rooms had been turned into a bedroom by Mrs. Mingott when the burden of flesh descended on her, and in the adjoining one she spent her days, enthroned in a large armchair between the open door and window, and perpetually waving a palm-leaf fan which the prodigious projection of her bosom kept so far from the rest of her person that the air it set in motion stirred only the fringe of the anti-macassars on the chair-arms.