...
"Yes," she told me with a sigh, I know not whether of resignation or
relief, "the house is to be let or sold. Mabel has decided. Some Society
or other, I believe--"
I was overjoyed: this made our leaving right and possible. "You never
told me, Frances!"
"Mabel only heard of it a few days ago. She told me herself this
morning. It is a chance, she says. Alone she cannot get it 'straight'.
"Defeat?" I asked, watching her closely.
"She thinks she has found a way out. It's not a family, you see, it's a
Society, a sort of Community--they go in for thought--"
"A Community!" I gasped. "You mean religious?"
She shook her head. "Not exactly," she said smiling, "but some kind of
association of men and women who want a headquarters in the country--a
place where they can write and meditate--think--mature their plans and
all the rest--I don't know exactly what."
"Utopian dreamers?" I asked, yet feeling an immense relief come over me
as I heard. But I asked in ignorance, not cynically. Frances would know.
She knew all this kind of thing.
"No, not that exactly," she smiled. "Their teachings are grand and
simple--old as the world too, really--the basis of every religion before
men's minds perverted them with their manufactured creeds--"
Footsteps on the stairs, and the sound of voices, interrupted our odd
impromptu conversation, as the Grenadier came up, followed by the tall,
grave gentleman who was being shown over the house.
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