THE bronze turtle had much company during the summer days. There were the bees and the birds and the butterflies, the lillies on the pond, the roses in the garden. The air was fragrant as it had been a thousand years ago in Japan. Perhaps the bronze turtle remembered.
But of human companionship there was none. The house on the hill was closed. Now and then Delia opened it and dusted and aired. But she and Sampson kept, otherwise, to their own quarters. And the crystal cat slept alone in the dark, on the lacquered cabinet.
Then one heavenly day in July, when the breeze blew cool from the Bay, a man stood by the pool and plucked a rose from a bush at its edge. It was a tiny rose, just big enough to go in a letter, and the letter was to go to Paris.
Crispin had not had many letters from Hildegarde. But he had doggedly kept on writing. He had steadily refused to believe she was fickle or shallow. If she did not love him, there were at least all the years of friendship for herself and for her mother. Some day she would remember.
On that faith he lived. He was working now in the Washington office, and had a small car of his own. He
