own departure. He would prepare the way for her, talk with her aunts. And it was best that he should not be at Round Hill when she broke the news to her father. They could not, of course, travel to gether.
Winslow said, "You mustn't let yourself fall in love with him."
"Why not?"
"There's too much ahead of you here. Paris in the spring! Scotland in summer! The Nile, perhaps, next winter!"
Paris! Scotland! The Nile! And set against all that, the farm. She had a sense of panic. Everything in the lovely room seemed to mock her—the silver birds trailing their shining tails on the satin-smooth cloth, the glow of the tall candles, the red of the Christmas roses in the Sheffield bowl, the glimmer of pearls on the white necks of the women.
Aunt Olivia and Aunt Catherine wore gingham gowns, and there was an oil lamp in the center of the table! All the food was put on at once! And they were such silent women! There would be nobody to talk to, now that her mother was gone.
At the end of the meal Sally rose to propose a toast to Crispin.
"He goes tomorrow. Can't somebody do it in verse? 'When Crispin goes'—it rhymes with 'rose,' and 'watch and ward' with 'Hildegarde.'"
Sally's hair was a blaze of gold. Her slender figure in flame chiffon was like the calyx of a bright flower. Winslow, leaning back, watched her with narrowed eyes. He had a decision to make. He was indeed an
