It was
a household. There was even brass andirons. On a table was an album,
half-morocco, with oxidized-silver protections on the corners of the
lids. A clock on the mantel ticked loudly, with a warning click at five
minutes to nine. Ives looked at it curiously, remembering a time-piece
in his grandmother's home that gave such a warning.
And then down the stairs and into the room came Mary Marsden. She was
twenty-four, and I leave her to your imagination. But I must say this
much--youth and health and simplicity and courage and greenish-violet
eyes are beautiful, and she had all these. She gave Ives her hand with
the sweet cordiality of an old friendship.
"You can't think what a pleasure it is," she said, "to have you drop in
once every three years or so."
For half an hour they talked. I confess that I cannot repeat the
conversation. You will find it in books in the circulating library. When
that part of it was over, Mary said:
"And did you find what you wanted while you were abroad?"
"What I wanted?" said Ives.
"Yes. You know you were always queer. Even as a boy you wouldn't play
marbles or baseball or any game with rules. You wanted to dive in water
where you didn't know whether it was ten inches or ten feet deep.
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