He shrugged, removed his glasses, polished them on his
handkerchief, and sat holding them, his short-sighted eyes lost in
reverie.

His wife endured it to the limit of patience:

"Curt," she began in a lower voice, "you and I gen'ally avoid
certain matters, dear--but--ev'ything is sure to come right in the
end--isn't it? The No'th is going to be sensible."

"In the--end," he admitted quietly. And between them the ocean
sprang into view again.

"I wonder--" She stopped, and an inexplicable uneasiness stirred in
her breast. She looked around at her son, her left hand fell
protectingly upon his shoulder, her right, groping, touched her
husband's sleeve.

"I am--well cared for--in the world," she sighed happily to
herself. "It shall not come nigh me."

Stephen was saying to Ailsa:

"There's a piece of up-town property that came into the office
to-day which seems to me significant of the future. It would be a
good investment for you, Cousin Ailsa. Some day Fifth Avenue will
be built up solidly with brown-stone mansions as far as the Central
Park. It is all going to be wonderfully attractive when they
finish it."