His eyes, making the round of the room—­done over by Dallas with English mezzotints, Chippendale cabinets, bits of chosen blue-and-white and pleasantly shaded electric lamps—­came back to the old Eastlake writing-table that he had never been willing to banish, and to his first photograph of May, which still kept its place beside his inkstand.

There she was, tall, round-bosomed and willowy, in her starched muslin and flapping Leghorn, as he had seen her under the orange-trees in the Mission garden.  And as he had seen her that day, so she had remained; never quite at the same height, yet never far below it:  generous, faithful, unwearied; but so lacking in imagination, so incapable of growth, that the world of her youth had fallen into pieces and rebuilt itself without her ever being conscious of the change.  This hard bright blindness had kept her immediate horizon apparently unaltered.  Her incapacity to recognise change made her children conceal their views from her as Archer concealed his; there had been, from the first, a joint pretence of sameness, a kind of innocent family hypocrisy, in which father and children had unconsciously collaborated.  And she had died thinking the world a good place, full of loving and harmonious households like her own, and resigned to leave it because she was convinced that, whatever happened, Newland would continue to inculcate in Dallas the same principles and prejudices which had shaped his parents’ lives, and that Dallas in turn (when Newland followed her) would transmit the sacred trust to little Bill.  And of Mary she was sure as of her own self.  So, having snatched little Bill from the grave, and given her life in the effort, she went contentedly to her place in the Archer vault in St. Mark’s, where Mrs. Archer already lay safe from the terrifying “trend” which her daughter-in-law had never even become aware of.

Opposite May’s portrait stood one of her daughter.  Mary Chivers was as tall and fair as her mother, but large-waisted, flat-chested and slightly slouching, as the altered fashion required.  Mary Chivers’s mighty feats of athleticism could not have been performed with the twenty-inch waist that May Archer’s azure sash so easily spanned.  And the difference seemed symbolic; the mother’s life had been as closely girt as her figure.  Mary, who was no less conventional, and no more intelligent, yet led a larger life and held more tolerant views.  There was good in the new order too.

The telephone clicked, and Archer, turning from the photographs, unhooked the transmitter at his elbow.  How far they were from the days when the legs of the brass-buttoned messenger boy had been New York’s only means of quick communication!

“Chicago wants you.”

Ah—­it must be a long-distance from Dallas, who had been sent to Chicago by his firm to talk over the plan of the Lakeside palace they were to build for a young millionaire with ideas.  The firm always sent Dallas on such errands.