Ralph came down to the dining room for the evening meal, and sat at the head of the table in his bathrobe. It seemed to Clinton that everyone was in good spirits. He thought that Echo, to whom he gave most of his attention, was in better form than ever before: perhaps the nerve medicine in her pocketbook had caused him to imagine, earlier in the day, that some deep problem existed, when in reality she might simply have suffered from the effects of a bad night, troublesome dreams of no significance whatever. Because now Echo was herself again, alert, interested, gay, causing the conversation to flourish by touching off in each person, as if by some magical intuition, his secret sources of gold; and drinking in with her eyes all the faces and voices, her responses reflecting with quicksilver sensitivity the mood and quality of each moment. Clinton saw that Berry-berry, too, was attentive, considerate, absorbed by all the talk and activity at the table.

By the time dinner had ended, Clinton had all but forgotten his earlier fears. He accompanied Ralph to his bedroom, and when Annabel had finished with the supper dishes, the three of them sat for an hour reading the Sunday papers. There was not much talk, but they were together in a warm and easy companionship that had been restored to them with the advent of Echo O’Brien in their lives, and with Berry-berry’s return. Annabel and Ralph had learned not only to tolerate each other, but to overlook or forgive in each other many of the qualities that had for so many years driven them to separate corners of the house. Ralph had lost much of his former eagerness to offend Annabel’s sensibilities; and she, in turn, was less inclined to take issue with him when she found his behavior objectionable. Clinton knew that it was Echo who had, by her own example, brought them to this truce, and led them even beyond it to the pleasures and comforts of mutual sympathy: it seemed to him very much like love; and life itself had gradually been restored to them.