“I promised Bertie Chatterton to give you this invitation for his studio tea to-morrow, in person, and I fear that I have rather overshot my promise.  Best way to get that brute up will be from the bank wall,—­will damage your fruit less.  I will have a derrick sent up to-morrow, or if possible this afternoon.  I’m awfully sorry, Mrs. Evan, but I think you’ll bear me witness that the accident was quite out of my control.  May I beg the favour of a trap home?  I’m a trifle shaken up, that’s all.”  And as if the accident were an everyday affair, he departed without fuss and having steadied my nerves by his entire self-control.

As I stood by the gateway pondering upon the matter and the easy manners of this Whirlpooler, Mrs. Jenks-Smith drove past.  She had met Mr. Somers, and as her curiosity was piqued by his strange attire, she stopped to see if I could furnish a clew.  She says, by the way, that he is not a New Yorker, but from Boston, and that his father is an English Honourable and his mother a Frenchwoman.

A gang of men with a sort of wrecking machine hired from the railroad company removed the Thing next day, and towed it off, but of course the strawberries were half ruined; next a man from the florist’s in town came with directions to repair all damage to turf and replace the smashed plants.  Yet that is not all—­the sense of peace and protection that I had when working in my garden has had a shock.  In spite of the inhospitable air it gives the place, I think we must keep the gates closed.

Why was Jenks-Smith inspired to start a land-boom here and fate allowed to make fashion smile on it, when we were so uneventfully happy, so twinfully content?

* * * * *

Martin Cortright arrived on Wednesday, and is safely ensconced with Martha and Timothy Saunders, who could give him the couple of plainly furnished rooms he desired, and breakfast at any hour.  For a man of no hours (which usually means he never breakfasts before nine) to forgather cheerfully at a commuter’s table at 7:15 A.M. is a trial to him, and a second breakfast is apt to cause a cloud in Madam C.’s domestic horizon.  Therefore, father allowed Martin to do as he suggested, live at the farm cottage and work here in the library or attic den, as suits his convenience.  In this way he feels quite independent, has motive for exercise in walking to and fro, and as he is always welcome to dine with us, can mix his portion of solitude and society in the exact proportion of his taste, even as his well-shaped fingers carefully blend the tobacco for his outdoor pipe.

Dear old fellow, he seems so happy and bubbling over with good temper at having overstepped the tyranny of habit, that I shall almost expect to see his gray hairs turn brown again as the wintry pelt of the weasel does in spring.

If the Vanderveer boy is diagnosed as a case of “suppressed boyhood,” then Martin Cortright’s only ailment should be dubbed “suppressed youth!”