Part 22

"Then, I'm with your old families. They may be conservative, at times a trifle too much so, but, in the main, their judgment's pretty reliable, according to conditions. What sort of place did you find--I mean the house?"

"Very fair!"

"And the society?"

"Much better than Northumberland."

"Hum--I see--the aristocracy of birth, not dollars."

"Exactly!--How do you do, Mr. Fitzhugh," as they passed a policeman in uniform.

"Good morning, Mr. Croyden!" was the answer.

"There! that illustrates," said Croyden. "You meet Fitzhugh every place when he is off duty. He belongs. His occupation does not figure, in the least."

"So you like it--Hampton, I mean?" said Macloud.

"I've been here a month--and that month I've enjoyed--thoroughly enjoyed. However, I do miss the Clubs and their life."

"I can understand," Macloud interjected.

"And the ability to get, instantly, anything you want----"

"Much of which you don't want--and wouldn't get, if you had to write for it, or even to walk down town for it--which makes for economy," observed Macloud sententiously.

"But, more than either, I miss the personal isolation which one can have in a big town, when he wishes it--and has always, in some degree."

"And that gets on your nerves!" laughed Macloud. "Well, you won't mind it after a while, I think. You'll get used to it, and be quite oblivious. Is that all your objections?"

"I've been here only a short time, remember. Come back in six months, say, and I may have kicks in plenty."

"You may find it a bit dreary in winter--who the deuce is that girl yonder, Geoffrey?" he broke off.

They were opposite Carrington's, and down the walk toward the gate was coming the maid of the blue-black hair, and slender ankles. She wore a blue linen gown, a black hat, and her face was framed by a white silk parasol.

"That is Miss Carrington," said Croyden.

"Hum!--Your house near here?"

"Yes--pretty near."

Macloud looked at him with a grin.

"She has nothing to do with your liking the town, I suppose?" he said, knowingly.

"Well, she's not exactly a deterrent--and there are half a dozen more of the same sort. Oh, on that score, Hampton's not half bad, my friend!" he laughed.

"You mean there are half a dozen of that sort," with a slight jerk of his head toward Miss Carrington, "who are unmarried?"

Croyden nodded--then looked across; and both men raised their hats and bowed.

"And how many married?" Macloud queried.

"Several--but you let them alone--it's not fashionable here, as yet, for a pretty married woman to have an affair. She loves her husband, or acts it, at least. They're neither prudes nor prigs, but they are not that."