n very often,
with an automobile filled with friends; Jemima having come to appreciate
more fully at a distance something of the unusual atmosphere of her
former home. It was no rare thing for Philip to return from an afternoon
gallop and find his house full of guests, drinking tea or toddies
according to their sex, and unmistakably grouped around Jacqueline as
the central figure. The party usually adjourned to Storm for supper, to
the huge delight of Big Liza and the quiet pleasure of the Madam
herself, who looked forward to these incursions of Jemima's with a
combination of dread and eagerness.

Jacqueline, on these occasions, was surprised to note the ease with
which Philip entered into the duties of host, making his guests
comfortable with the sort of effortless charm that usually comes only
with much experience of entertaining. She realized it was the same
adaptability he had shown among the mountain folk, and among the simple
people of his own parish; and she began to be very proud of her husband.

Invitations poured in on them from Lexington and Frankfort and the
surrounding Bluegrass country. "Why don't we go to some of these
parties!" he suggested one day. "Of course I'm not a dancing-man, but I
could take you very easily, thanks to the Ark, and once there I daresay
you will not lack for beaux, you staid old married woman!"

"Do you _want_ to go to parties?" she asked, rather wistfully.

"I love to see you enjoy yourself."

"Oh, but I enjoy myself without parties," she said; adding quickly,
"Would it be better for the parish if I went?"

He laughed and put an arm around her. "No, Mrs. Rector. It's not that
kind of parish, thank goodness!"

"Then--" she nestled against him--"I'd rather stay home at night.
Wouldn't you?"

Philip admitted that he would.

His suggestion had come as the result of much covert study of his little
wife. Despite her pretty, matronly airs, her contented preoccupation
with new duties, he was not altogether satisfied with the look of
Jacqueline. He saw things her mother failed to notice--a faint shadow
beneath her eyes which made them look oddly dark, a little hollowing of
the cheeks, rosy as they were; above all a certain listlessness, a sort
of abstraction that she covered by forced gaiety. She appeared to have
lost interest in many of the things that used to be her joy; sang often,
it is true, but without enthusiasm; rarely rode the fine saddle horse
that had come from Storm