ulate words, but in tones of refusal and refusal more positive again. Then it ceased.
When she emerged, in her sleeved dress, she was coolly oblivious to the call, and Jay did not bring himself to question her about it. He took her to a taxi before he recollected that he could not afford it for transportation of a few blocks on a clear, dry evening.
He had looked in at home a couple of days before and he had driven Lida past the house, but she had not cared to enter; accordingly, when Beedy opened the door, she paid her first visit.
Beedy was faultless, bearing himself with more dignity, indeed, than did the man in Lida's home in New York. This and the sombre melancholy of the big hall surprised gud slightly constrained Lida. The place felt older, far, than a Park Avenue apartment and over the wide hallway presided two portraits. Jay took Lida's coat and handed it with his own to Beedy while Lida examined the serious countenance of a handsome, black-haired man, portrayed with a lilt of life for all the dogged earnestness of set lips.
"Who hired Sargent?" inquired Lida.
"That's grandfather," said Jay, a bit proudly.
"Heaven, I suppose," observed Lida, "was quite a locality with him." And she turned to the solid likeness of a gray-haired, bearded patriarch. "That's Stanley Alban," explained Jay. "My grandfather's best friend."
Lida dipped into her husband's pocket for a cigarette and, lighting it, she completely cleared away her momentary oppression. "California by covered wagon in '49?" she inquired, peering over the match at the portrait.
"No," said Jay. "Just Illinois."
