“Much obliged,” said Mrs. McAllister coldly. “I think Hope looks ill.”

“Ill? Why, ma’am, though you’re a woman, you don’t know women. What female creature ever looked well on her wedding day? I always say the expression shouldn’t be ‘white as a ghost’ but ‘white as a bride.’ And the whiter they are, the prettier, what?”

Mrs. McAllister received a plate of sole and salad and a glass of champagne from me. Refusing from that moment forward to discuss the wedding, the wedding breakfast, or the bride and groom, she commenced on an analysis of Amy Brooks’ water colors in which she displayed more affection than intelligence. “The sweet thing, knowing that I don’t get about, brought a whole portfolio full of them to me yesterday and I was perfectly charmed. She has real talent.” She went on to describe in particular a little scene Amy had done of the hemlocks in the Arboretum. While I nodded with interest and even volunteered a few comments (“How much I should like to see the picture. No, I have never been to the Arboretum, but I hope to go on Lilac Sunday,” etc.), I was actually engrossed in staring at Harry Morgan who had belatedly followed me out of the pantry and was in conversation with the Countess who, from her smiles and laughter, appeared to find him delightful. A surge of people presently obliterated them and I turned my mind again to what Mrs. McAllister and the Admiral were saying. The Arboretum had led her to her own garden in Concord, and Concord had led her to the bitter announcement, corroborated by her son, Reverend McAllister, who edged his way up to us, that “I suppose you’ve heard Philip Senior has given the young couple a handsome wedding present? That house on the Bedford Road left to him by my husband.”

“I declare!” cried the Admiral. “That is handsome of you, Phil. Why, that’s a humdinger of a house. Up on a hill, ain’t it?”

Mrs. McAllister sighed deeply. “The loveliest house in Middlesex County, Lincoln. One of the loveliest in New England. I have always said we ought to turn it over to a historical society.”

“No, Mother, not in my lifetime. I hope the children will get some pleasure out of it. I’ve never cared much for the house myself. Would have sold it long ago, Lincoln, but Mother here didn’t like its being in the hands of a stranger.”

The old lady pursed her lips, said nothing, but obviously was thinking that the house was in the hands of a stranger.

Her son asked me then, “How much champagne would you say Lucy Pride ordered for this collation?” I told him exactly: twelve cases. He raised his eyebrows, appalled. “If all the money spent on drink were handed over to the missionaries, we would have a Christian world.”