At a quarter to one they entered a sleepy village reminiscent of a New England of other days.  The long street, deeply shaded in summer, was bordered by decorous homes, some of which had stood there for a century and a half; others were of the Mansard period.  The high school, of strawberry-coloured brick, had been the pride and glory of the Kingsbury of the ’70s:  there were many churches, some graceful and some hideous.  At the end of the street they came upon a common, surrounded by stone posts and a railing, with a monument in the middle of it, and facing the common on the north side was a rambling edifice with many white gables, in front of which, from an iron arm on a post, swung a quaint sign, “Kingsbury Tavern.”  In revolutionary and coaching days the place bad been a famous inn; and now, thanks to the enterprise of a man who had foreseen the possibilities of an era of automobiles, it had become even more famous.  A score of these modern vehicles were drawn up before it under the bare, ancient elms; there was a scene of animation on the long porch, where guests strolled up and down or sat in groups in the rocking-chairs which the mild weather had brought forth again.  Ditmar drew up in line with the other motors, and stopped.

“Well, here we are!” he exclaimed, as he pulled off his gauntlets.  “I guess I could get along with something to eat.  How about you?  They treat you as well here as any place I know of in New England.”

He assumed their lunching together at a public place as a matter of course to which there could not possibly be an objection, springing out of the car, removing the laprobe from her knees, and helping her to alight.  She laid the roses on the seat.

“Aren’t you going to bring them along?” he demanded.

“I’d rather not,” she said.  “Don’t you think they’ll be safe here?”

“Oh, I guess so,” he replied.  She was always surprising him; but her solicitation concerning them was a balm, and he found all such instinctive acts refreshing.

“Afraid of putting up too much of a front, are you?” he asked smilingly.

“I’d rather leave them here,” she replied.  As she walked beside Ditmar to the door she was excited, unwontedly self-conscious, painfully aware of inspection by the groups on the porch.  She had seen such people as these hurrying in automobiles through the ugliness of Faber Street in Hampton toward just such delectable spots as this village of Kingsbury—­people of that world of freedom and privilege from which she was excluded; Ditmar’s world.  He was at home here.  But she?  The delusion that she somehow had been miraculously snatched up into it was marred by their glances.  What were they thinking of her?  Her face was hot as she passed them and entered the hall, where more people were gathered.  But Ditmar’s complacency, his ease and self-confidence, his manner of owning the place, as it were, somewhat reassured her.  He went up to the desk, behind which, stood a burly, red-complexioned man who greeted him effusively, yet with the air of respect accorded the powerful.