was fresh and unusual, amid a surfeit of stale and commonplace—he was relished to the uttermost.
It appeared, however, that the press of social duties and the trying spring weather were proving too much for Mrs. Delroy’s strength, which was never great, and which had been especially taxed, this season, by the introduction of her sister to New York society. Even the comparative quiet of the Lenten season failed to restore her, and the resumption of the social whirl after Easter moved Delroy to protest.
“You’re going it too hard, Edith,” he remarked. “You need a rest and a change of air; so do I, though perhaps I don’t look it. Suppose we go down to Edgemere for a week or two.”
“Would you like to go?” she asked eagerly. “Thank you, dear. I do feel the need of it.”
“Then I’ll wire at once to Thomas to get the house ready. Shall we say next Saturday?”
“That will do nicely.”
“I suppose we’d better have Jack down to look after Grace?”
“By all means—and you’d better have a friend or two—I don’t want you to get bored.”
“Oh, I shan’t get bored—besides, I can run into town occasionally. But perhaps I will invite two or three of the fellows down for a few days. I’ll think about it,” and he hurried away to set the preparations astir.
It was not till the evening before their departure that he referred to the matter again.
“Jack’s coming with us,” he said, “and, by the way, Edith, I’ve asked Tremaine to come down to-morrow
