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Her forty-five years sat lightly upon Fabia, leaving her still lovely in the sensitive eyes of her husband and stepdaughter. A temperamental equableness and a disciplined character gave to her finely modelled face an inward tranquillity which was a refuge to their ardent natures. She only smiled now, as Perilla's lively tongue began again: "How happy you make father all the time!
Ovid and his daughter were singularly alike in a certain blitheness of demeanour, and in Fabia's eyes they made a charming picture now, both of them in festal white against the March green of the slender poplars. Perilla's little boy had climbed into his grandfather's lap and laid carefully upon his hair, still thick and black, a wreath of grape leaves picked from early vines in a sunny corner.
"Reckon they're all taking their siesta," commented. Bud. "Perilla's a great place for greasers, yuh know, bein' so near the border. There's a heap sight more of 'em than whites." Presently they began to pass small, detached adobe huts, some of them the merest hovels.
"We've done about all we can; the rest of it's up to him." "I reckon so," agreed Jessup. "I never met up with him, but they say he's a good skate. Perilla's some little jaunt from here, though. Yuh thinkin' of riding all the way?" "Why not? It'll be quicker in the end than going to Harpswell and taking the train. We'll likely need the cayuses, too, when we get there.
Perilla's jest led her father to talk of his years, and to wonder whether he was to have as long a life as his father, who had died only two or three years before at ninety. "At least, having no sons," he went on, "I shall be spared some of his disappointments. It was cruel that my brother, who could have satisfied him by going into public life, should have died. Father had no use for literature.
In doing this she had been poignantly reminded of the birthday fete two years ago, of Perilla's sweetness to her, and of their conversation, so light-hearted at the time, about woman's place in the state. Since then she had been wondering whether she could still say that it was enough for her to be a wife. She was perfectly sure that she did not miss the outer satisfactions of being Ovid's wife.
Fabia and Perilla's husband, Fidus Cornelius, smiled at each other in mutual appreciation of a youth shared equally, it seemed to them, by the other three with the new-born spring. It was Ovid's birthday and they were celebrating it in their country place at the juncture of the Flaminian and Clodian roads.
But the manner of the crossing never became clear in her memory. Details stood out mercilessly. Their relationship, their significance were at the time as phantasmagoric as if she had been lost in the torturing unrealities of a nightmare. Just after her uncle left she was called to the room of Perilla's youngest child who had awakened with a sore throat and fever.
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