It
always does. A group of strangers all laughing together,
and with a set of catchwords and jokes all their own,
always throws me into a fit of sadness, deeper than words.
I had thought, when Mrs. Beverly-Jones said a _small_
party, she really meant small. I had had a mental picture
of a few sad people, greeting me very quietly and gently,
and of myself, quiet, too, but cheerful--somehow lifting
them up, with no great effort, by my mere presence.
Somehow from the very first I could feel that Beverly-Jones
was disappointed in me. He said nothing. But I knew it.
On that first afternoon, between my arrival and dinner,
he took me about his place, to show it to me. I wish that
at some proper time I had learned just what it is that
you say when a man shows you about his place. I never
knew before how deficient I am in it. I am all right to
be shown an iron-and-steel plant, or a soda-water factory,
or anything really wonderful, but being shown a house
and grounds and trees, things that I have seen all my
life, leaves me absolutely silent.
"These big gates," said Beverly-Jones, "we only put up
this year."
"Oh," I said. That was all. Why shouldn't they put them
up this year? I didn't care if they'd put them up this
year or a thousand years ago.
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