winds, all lapped her in indolence. As they neared the gate that gave
upon the open road, a turn brought them in sight of the front of the
house. It was very beautiful. She breathed deeply in the content of
the sight--the delicate lines, the soft color, the perfection of
detail. In the gardens were stained, mellow columns and balustrades
which Anna had brought from the dismantled palace in the Italian hills
where she had found them. Everywhere wealth made its subtlest, most
delicate appeal to her eyes.

"My house," thought Millicent, as they shot out of the grounds, "shall
be different, but as beautiful. The Tudor style, I think, and for my
out-of-door glory a vast rose-garden,--acres, if I please!" Then she
called sternly to her straying imagination. She was picturing what she
might have as the wife of the man before her--the man whose first
proposal she had unhesitatingly refused, whose appearance at Lakeholm
she had regarded as proof of disloyalty on Anna's part--the man who at
the best represented to her only the artistic possibilities of riches.
She dismissed her reverie with a frown and joined in the talk.

"Do you know," she confessed, "I forget where it is that we are going?"

"We're coming back to the Monroes' for luncheon," Mrs. Dinsmore
reminded her. "But Mr. Brockton is going to skim over most of the
Berkshires first. I think you said you hadn't been in this part of the
country before, Mr. Brockton?"

"No," said Brockton, "I haven't had much chance to get acquainted with
the playgrounds of the country. I've been too busy earning a holiday.
But I've earned it all right." He turned to emphasize his boast with a
nod toward Millicent. She blushed. His very chauffeur must redden at