LITMIR.BIZ

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tongues, stuck out in derision.

      “Will you paint the front door ivory?” Mary asked.

      “No. The door will keep its natural oak colour. The brass knocker looks well on it, don’t you agree?”

      “It’s a very nice house,” said Mary. “Our family has five homes and it’s the best.”

      The house appeared to absorb all this attention and praise with great self-satisfaction. If a house could be said to look smug, certainly it did. It seemed to say: “I will remain here, to justify your lives, as long as this country survives.”

      Seven pigeons slid down the sloping roof and stood poised for flight, their jewel-like eyes, their burnished throats, bright with the promise of the season. The steps that now came running along the drive were those of Renny’s daughter, Adeline. She was five years older than Archer and though slim was exuberantly formed, as compared to the stark austerity of his youthful frame. These two were in every way a contrast: his fair hair, dry and inclined to stand upright, while hers, of a rich auburn that in sunlight glowed red, curled, as though caressingly, about her vivid face; his eyes a constant blue, hers a changeful brown; his lips composed in a thoughtful and almost satiric (or so he hoped) line, hers ready to smile or be sad.

      “I heard your voice, Daddy,” she exclaimed. “Where are you going? To the stables? Hello, Mary.” She kissed the little girl with warmth and a certain possessiveness.

      Renny said, “Mary and I are making the rounds of the family, just to see that everyone is in their place and behaving themselves and to let them know we are on the spot if they want our advice or our help.”

      Mary looked important.

      “Good,” said Adeline. “I’ll go with you as far as the stables.” She wore riding clothes and already had been exercising her favourite horse. That was what had brought the brilliant colour to her cheeks.

      In the stable they inspected the foal — weak, rough-coated, timid of eye, but standing on his legs. A whicker of warning and pride made him move closer to his mother, who showed no sign of the ordeal of giving him birth. At this time she was the heroine of the stables. Nothing was too good for her.

      Mary sniffed the scent of clean straw and hay. She remarked, “It’s warmer here than outdoors. Why is it warmer here than outdoors?”

      “It’s animal warmth,” said Adeline. “It’s the healthiest kind of warmth.”

      “I wish,” said Mary, “that I might go to see East Wind.… He’s my favourite of all the horses.”

      Renny and Adeline exchanged a look over the child’s head. The look said: What an amazingly clever child she is. The things she thinks up!

      “He certainly should be my favourite!” Renny spoke with warmth, for all his present prosperity, so long delayed, was due to the prowess of East Wind on the racetrack.

      The thoroughbred stood now in his loose box, eyeing them nonchalantly. He was big, brawny, without elegance, but full of confidence. No sudden contingency alarmed him. He enjoyed racing. He had an impeccable digestion and iron nerves. Renny Whiteoak had spent a large part of the legacy from a loved uncle in acquiring East Wind. He had bought him in the face of bitter though almost silent opposition from his wife. And how well had that purchase turned out! The rangy colt had won race after race. Wealthy racing men had offered large sums for him, but a kind of stubborn loyalty caused Renny to refuse even the most tempting offers. East Wind’s place was at Jalna as long as he lived.

      It was this same loyalty that led Renny now to the side of his loved old mare, Cora. She was approaching forty years of age but was in fine fettle — her teeth tolerably good; her intelligence, so Renny thought, amazing. She loved him with the ardour of a strong, one-track nature. He now submitted to her moist nuzzling, her pushing and her nipping, giving her in return a playful cuff, as well as a kiss.

      After the visit to the stables, uncle and niece went down a path, through a ravine and across a rushing brown stream that not long ago had been frozen. Now it flowed only a few inches below the small rustic bridge spanning it. “I won’t walk across,” cried Mary. “I won’t! I won’t! I’m afraid!”

      “I’m surprised at you,” said Renny. “Every spring you see this little stream in flood. Why should it frighten you now?”

      “It never came so close before.” Mary looked at it askance. “It’s turned into something different. I don’t like it. I’ll get my feet wet,” she said, as though they could be any wetter. He picked her up, strode across the bridge with her, set her down on the other side. Happily she clambered up the path on the far side of the ravine. Passing through a bit of woodland in whose shelter the first hepaticas, the snow-white bloodroot bloomed, and the crows were cawing, they came to the small house known as the Fox Farm. Here lived Renny’s niece, Patience, married to a writer named Humphrey Bell. She opened the door to them and it could be seen at once that they had called at an unpropitious time. After kissing them she whispered:

      “Humphrey is desperately working on a radio play. He must finish it by evening. I’m so sorry he can’t come down. He’ll be sorry too.”

      “Okay,” said Renny, “if he’s not able to come down, I’ll go up and see him.”

      “Oh, no!” She tried to intercept him, but he was already on his way up the uncarpeted stairs that creaked at every step.

      When the two cousins were left below, Mary remarked, “I like television better than radio.”

      “I like radio best,” said Patience, “because Humphrey makes more out of radio. I do wish Uncle Renny hadn’t gone up.”

      “Shall I go up and tell him?”

      “Goodness, no. It’s very bad for a writer to be interrupted in his work.”

      “We’re making a tour of the family houses.” Mary looked important. “You are second on our list.”

      The two men now descended the stair together, their boots clumping in unison. Patience, who looked on her husband as an artist to be protected and cherished, searched his face in anguish to discover what damage this interruption might have done him. But his was an inscrutable face, principally because of his extreme fairness. He had narrowly escaped being an albino.

      “We’re going to have a drink,” he said to Patience and went to the pantry and brought out a bottle of rye.

      Patience and Mary looked on in a kind of speechless disapproval while the two men, having produced a completely masculine atmosphere, sipped their drinks and talked about the weather.

      “Have another?” Humphrey invited, suddenly looking carefree, as though he had not a living to earn and his wife were not pregnant. On her part she placed her bulk between him and her uncle, as though to protect him.

      “No second drink in the morning,” said Renny. “But this was just what I needed to warm me up.”

      “You never look chilly.”

      “It’s my colouring. Now you never look warm.”

      “I suppose it’s my colouring — or lack of it,” said Humphrey Bell ruefully.

      “Have you,” asked Renny, as he finished his drink, “noticed anything about my hair?”

      “Only,” answered Bell, “how thick it is and — how red.”

      “Uncle Renny can’t help that,” put in Patience. “I’m used to it and I like it.”

      Renny gave her a hug. “Thank you, Patty. However, this child tells me I am going grey at the temples. I don’t want to be self-centred like my poor old grandmother, but it came as rather a shock.”

      Was he being funny? Patience wondered. She said — “I had noticed.”

      “Had you noticed, Humphrey?” Renny demanded.

      “I had noticed,” said Bell,

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