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Updated: May 17, 2025
One woman in her season plays many parts, dashing in one place, reserved in another, now gay and active, now listless and sentimental, not at all the same woman at Newport that she is in the Adirondack camps, one thing at Bar Harbor and quite another at Saratoga or at Richfield.
Armstrong, telling her nothing but that Arnold's legitimate child was at Richfield, and imploring her to recognize him. She was dying: the boy was an Armstrong, and entitled to his father's share of the estate. The papers were in her trunk at Sunnyside, with letters from the dead man that would prove what she said.
The Bartlett-Glows were already due at Richfield; in fact, Penelope was impatient to go, now that she had persuaded the Bensons to accompany her; and the artist, who had been for some time grumbling that there was nothing left in Saratoga to draw except corks, reminded King of his agreement at Bar Harbor, and the necessity he felt for rural retirement after having been dragged all over the continent.
It seems to me the strangest thing in the world. I've seen you by chance, probably two or three times a month nearly all my life, though you so seldom come here to call. And this time wasn't different from dozens of other times you were just standing on the corner by the Richfield, waiting for a car.
"I don't know how seriously, but I have a cut on the hip, for which I exchanged one on the head, parrying the stroke so that it took me below the belt." "Have you a surgeon on board, Captain I have not the pleasure of knowing your name, sir." "Captain Richfield, lieutenant in the Confederate Navy. We have a surgeon on board, and he is below attending to the wounded," replied the captain.
She paused a moment before the last name, and shot a query through her lashes; but he remained imperturbable. "Mrs. Trenor asked me; but I can't get away till the end of the week; and those big parties bore me." "Ah, so they do me," she exclaimed. "Then why go?" "It's part of the business you forget! And besides, if I didn't, I should be playing bezique with my aunt at Richfield Springs."
It was the first time since the hold-up that he had been obliged to ride at night, but there was some valuable mail that had been delayed, and that must be put through. The pony express lad was on his trip toward Rainbow Ridge from Golden Crossing, and it was dark when he reached the point where the Richfield river branched off from the Ponto.
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