"Aren't you going to bring them along?" he demanded.

"I'd rather not," she said. "Don't you think they'll be safe here?"

"Oh, I guess so," he replied. She was always surprising him; but her
solicitation concerning them was a balm, and he found all such
instinctive acts refreshing.

"Afraid of putting up too much of a front, are you?" he asked smilingly.

"I'd rather leave them here," she replied. As she walked beside Ditmar to
the door she was excited, unwontedly self-conscious, painfully aware of
inspection by the groups on the porch. She had seen such people as these
hurrying in automobiles through the ugliness of Faber Street in Hampton
toward just such delectable spots as this village of Kingsbury--people
of that world of freedom and privilege from which she was excluded;
Ditmar's world. He was at home here. But she? The delusion that she
somehow had been miraculously snatched up into it was marred by their
glances. What were they thinking of her? Her face was hot as she passed
them and entered the hall, where more people were gathered. But Ditmar's
complacency, his ease and self-confidence, his manner of owning the
place, as it were, somewhat reassured her. He went up to the desk, behind
which, stood a burly, red-complexioned man who greeted him effusively,
yet with the air of respect accorded the powerful.

"Hullo, Eddie," said Ditmar. "You've got a good crowd here to-day. Any
room for me?"

"Sure, Mr. Ditmar, we can always make room for you. Well, I haven't laid
eyes on you for a dog's age. Only last Sunday Mr. Crane was here, and I