out. They had been to the swimming pool—a small but delightful one a half-mile away in a green hollow, tree-embowered—and all three were in bathing costume. Howard Martin trod gingerly across the drive and on to the warm brick flooring of the porch, on white, wincing, well-kept feet; Mrs. Pierce and the girl wore light bathing-robes and walked firmly, with assurance. Mrs. Pierce’s figure was as slender and as well-conditioned as the girl’s—her ankles and her legs were wonderfully graceful, strong and slender—but in comparison to her niece’s black and white voluptuousness—her dark and sullen, almost brooding, face and her swelling creamy thighs, her lavish belly and her melon-heavy breasts—the figure of Mrs. Pierce was lacking in seduction: it had the strength and slenderness of youth without youth’s warmth and freshness; it had, like everything about her, a chilled and glacial perfection that spoke of stern regimen, grim watchfulness, and unflagging effort—“keeping fit.”
As the two young men came up, Mrs. Pierce turned gracefully, her hand upon the screen-door, and with a smile awaited them. Her teeth were so solid, white, and perfect in their alignment that it was difficult to see where they joined together, and they sometimes suggested twin rows of solid gleaming ivory more than individual teeth: this circumstance also contributed to the glacial, detached and almost inhuman quality of her smile. She greeted her son’s friend with a kindly but detached “Good morning,” and without altering the rigid brilliance of her smile a jot, turned to her son and said:
“I thought you were coming to the pool. What happened to you and Ros’?”
These words were spoken quietly and matter-of-factly: nevertheless, the suggestion of strong displeasure and annoyance was somehow unmistakable.
Joel answered quickly, whispering a swift concerned explanation, his thin figure slightly bent forward, his gaunt face lifted, eagerly, radiantly concerned, in that attitude of devoted and solicitous respect that characterized his relations with every woman, but that was extremely marked when he spoke or listened to his mother:
“I know, Mums,” he whispered swiftly, apologetically, —“I’m terribly sorry—but he promised to read his play to us and that took all morning…. Mums!” he went on in his astounded and enthusiastic whisper, “it’s simply magnificent—I wish you could have been there to hear it.”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Pierce quietly, and turning, for a moment she regarded
