She went obediently upstairs with him to look at the gifts: more silver, some carved jade, a Heppelwhite sofa, a dower chest, very old. When it was opened it still smelled faintly of open wood fires and lavender. And Herbert was there, with an anxious pucker on his forehead and the notebook in his hand.
"Hello, darling." He kissed her abstractedly. "Look here, you know more about these things than I do. What's that tea service worth? Approximately, of course."
"It seems so calculating, Herbert."
"Not at all. There's a lot of value here, and it needs protection."
Mr. Trowbridge was roaming about, his hands behind his back, his head on one side.
"Now that's a pretty thing. What's it for?"
She stood beside him. Herbert had moved on. "Enamel and gold clock, $200. Antique Sheffield table urn, $100. Chest flat silver, $3000."
"Help an old man, Kay. What shall we send you?"
"Please, why send anything? We have more now than we can ever use."
He must not send anything. Nobody must send anything more. She wasn't going through with it. It would be a sin. A sin against Herbert and a sin against herself. To live with one man and love another was immoral.
"But of course I'll send you something. Don't you suppose I want to put at least a feather in the love nest?"
Love nest! Oh, God, if he would only go away; if they would only all go and give her time to think.
"What do you think these consoles are worth, Kay? Are they genuine or reproductions?"
"Father says they are genuine. Why don't you ask him?"
She got to her room at last and out onto the little balcony. But there were men just underneath, putting up a marquee on the lawn. Although it was late they were still working. They were putting down the floor, carefully pushing the boards home and then nailing them. It was like her father to want a floor in a marquee. In a day or two people would be sitting there, eating and drinking cham-
