“Forgive me, dear, for using the word ‘rebel,’” he said, smiling and straightening his shoulders.  “Where have you and Ailsa been to-day?  Did you go to New York?”

“Yes.  We saw the Academy, and, oh, Curt! there are some very striking landscapes—­two by Gifford; and the cutest portrait of a girl by Wiyam Hunt.  And your friend Bierstadt has a Western scene—­all fireworks! and, dear, Eastman Johnson was there—­and Kensett sent such a cunning little landscape.  We lunched at Taylor’s.”  She lowered her voice to a whisper.  “Ailsa did look too cute fo’ words.  I declare she is the most engaging little minx.  Eve’y man sta’ed at her.  I wish she would marry again and be happy. She doesn’t know what a happy love affair can be—­poor baby.”

“Do you?” asked her husband.

“Are you beginning to co’t me again, Curt?”

“Have I ever ceased?—­you little Rebel!”

“No,” she said under her breath.

“By the way, Celia,” he said smiling, “that young man—­cousin of yours—­Berkley, turned up promptly to-day.  I gave him a room in the office.”

“That was certainly ve’y frien’ly of you, Curt!” she responded warmly.  “You will be patient with him, won’t you?”

“I’ve had to be already.  I gave him a commission to collect some rents and he came back fifty dollars short, calmly explaining that one of our lodgers looked poor and he hated to ask for the rent.”

“O Curt—­the boy is ve’y sweet and wa’m-hearted.  Were you cross with him?”

“Not very.  I imparted a few plain truths—­very pleasantly, Celia.  He knew better; there’s a sort of an impish streak in him—­also an inclination for the pleasant by-ways of life. . . .  He had better let drink alone, too, if he expects to remain in my office.  I told him that.”

“Does he—­the foolish baby!”

“Oh, probably not very much.  I don’t know; he’s likable, but—­he hasn’t inspired me with any overwhelming respect and confidence.  His record is not exactly savoury.  But he’s your protege, and I’ll stand him as long as you can.”

“Thank you, Curt.  We must be gentle to him.  I shall ask him to dinner and we can give a May dance perhaps—­something informal and pretty—­What is the matter, Curt?”

“Nothing, dear. . . .  Only I wouldn’t plan anything just yet—­I mean for the present—­not for a few days, anyway——­”

He shrugged, removed his glasses, polished them on his handkerchief, and sat holding them, his short-sighted eyes lost in reverie.

His wife endured it to the limit of patience: 

“Curt,” she began in a lower voice, “you and I gen’ally avoid certain matters, dear—­but—­ev’ything is sure to come right in the end—­isn’t it?  The No’th is going to be sensible.”

“In the—­end,” he admitted quietly.  And between them the ocean sprang into view again.

“I wonder—­” She stopped, and an inexplicable uneasiness stirred in her breast.  She looked around at her son, her left hand fell protectingly upon his shoulder, her right, groping, touched her husband’s sleeve.