That reminds me that the people are drifting back quite rapidly now.  The golfers are afield again Sundays, and all talk of introducing fox hunting with tame foxes; but they will have to learn the land, with its dips and rocks, better first, or there will be a pretty crop of cracked crowns for father.  At present, I think that New England Prejudice will soon however get the upper hand here, and tighten her hold of the reins that seemed slipping from her grasp, which is well, for she has long borne aloft the only standard of national morality whose code is not a sliding scale.

* * * * *

September 9.  Martin came back to-night.  As he entered the house with Evan I positively did not know him, for he has shaved off his mustache and queer little pussy-cat whiskers, and with them has gone his “pudgyness.”  He is really a very fine-looking man, and his features are developed by the shaving process in an unexpected way.  He seems so wide awake, too, and alive to everything that passes, that I could see that father, who came from the office to greet him, had difficulty in restraining his surprise, but he contented himself by asking:—­

“How did you fare with the publishers?  Did you fall among thieves or among friends?”

“That is equivalent to asking if my book has been accepted, as it is only when work is refused that we call the mediums through which we seek to reach the public hard names.  Yes, the fate of my book is soon told; it has found its place, and is to be fully illustrated as well, though it will take me many months to collect the unique material they desire; this insures me a busy winter, for which I am not only prepared but eager.

“I wish I could as easily tell you what this summer here has done for me, Dick,” and he leaned over the chair in which father had seated himself and laid his arm affectionately across his shoulder.  “I think in asking me here you rescued me from as dangerous a condition of mental apathy as when you stood by my bed so many years ago.”

“Don’t thank me,” said father, leaning back and looking up at him, “thank God’s sunshine, work, the babies here, and why not woman’s society also,—­you used to appreciate that, too, eh, Martin, old man?  Give everybody his, or rather her, due.”

“Yes,” I heard him answer, as if pondering the matter, while I fled discreetly upstairs at this juncture, “you doubtless are right; Lavinia Dorman’s criticisms have been of infinite value in ridding my work of a litter of words that encumbered the spirit and purpose of it.  She is direct and to the point, and yet withal most sympathetic.  I had thought of dedicating the book to her in some private way, for really we are joint heirs, as it were, in so many traditions and habits of old New York, that it would not seem strained or inappropriate.”

“On the contrary, I think it most suitable, and I would not go to any great pains to hide the compliment of the dedication under a bushel of disguise either, if I were you.  The Lydia Languish age of abnormal privacy and distorted, unhealthy sensibility has fortunately passed.  Nowadays women like men to be direct, outspoken, definite, where they are concerned.”