Chapter 2

A TRAIN _goes into the country, inexorably this time. The die is cast
for the summer. Well, after all, why not cast a die, now and then, and
see what comes of it_?

XXXIII

LETTERS … _Now letters look innocent enough, but there’s seldom any
knowing what they contain–if addressed to other people. Once in a while
somebody reads one aloud, which may or may not help things_.

XXXIV

TRAGEDY _is always lurking somewhere. As much of it–in proportion–in
the country as in the town_.

XXXV

THE _country doctor speaks his mind over the long-distance telephone.
It’s a wonder he isn’t heard a hundred miles away without any connection
by wire whatever_.

XXXVI

DAVID’S _affairs exclusively. He has never heard of the Country
Bookshop, therefore he hasn’t been bothered with thoughts about it_.

XXXVII

THE _bookshop does a rushing business, as might be expected on Saturday
evening. But not many books are bought_.

XXXVIII

THERE’S _nothing like having things out, no matter how the discussion
turns. Let’s get right down to absolute frankness–it’s the only way_.

XXXIX

IF THE _bookshop makes a million in one short season, there’s nobody
more pleased than Charlie Higgins, who keeps the village inn. He wasn’t
important enough to go into the list of Characters, but he’s been
looking on with interest for a good while_.

CHARACTERS

DAVID MACROSS–_He lives in the country, but has been known to leave it,
rather often. Wherever he is, he carries a notebook._

ROSS COLLINS–_She knows nothing of the country, and cares less. Why
should she? She has a tremendous lot to do, right where she is._

WILLIAM AND LUCILLE DRUMMOND–_They have taken pains to forget the
country as fast as possible. So we don’t bother with them much._

KENDALL AND ETHEL CHENEY–_They wouldn’t recognize the country if they
saw it. Necessarily this fact narrows their understanding of life,
though they would laugh loudly at such an idea._

MADGE WINTHROP–_She is essentially of the Big Town. Her address is one
which salespeople note respectfully._

THOMAS THAYER–_He comes from Maine, but prefers sixty-story buildings
and the sounds of heavy traffic. He keeps his origin so well disguised
one would think he had been born to the noise of steel riveting. He also
carries a notebook, but its contents differ radically from those in
David MacRoss’s._

JIMMY FRENCH–_He is as familiar as his senior, Thayer, with newspaper
offices, but admits a touch of homesickness now and then for Wisconsin._

HESTER MACROSS–_She has made a remarkably sane adjustment of her life
between town and country. She is a real person–admirably real._

SUSAN SYLVESTER–_She prefers whichever region offers most excitement at
the moment, and being young and gay she can usually stir up some
wherever she is._

ELEANOR HALLAM–_She is probably the least prejudiced of them all, in
favor of either habitat, because she knows both extraordinarily well._

DR. SAM READE–_He practises his profession in the country, but has
always seen beyond its horizons. He can’t be caught by the camera, but a
portrait of him is to be found in many memories._

Note.–_Notebooks seem to figure over much in this story. They
are prying things, and one never knows in whose pockets they may
be found. So it isn’t strange that parts of the contents of them
frequently get printed._

HIGH FENCES

I

DAVID _goes reluctantly whither he would not. His entrance into
the story is therefore not voluntary, and he may turn out hard
to deal with. But once in, he’s here to stay, because he’s that
sort._

* * * * *

When he came into town that night on the six-ten David MacRoss had had
no idea of going to anybody’s dinner party. It was the last thing he
would have wanted to do if he had known of it beforehand, and had
foreseen that there would be no decent and kindly way of getting out of
it. But there wasn’t, or he would have found it.

His cousin William was lying shivering on the couch, his face flushed,
his head aching. William’s wife, Lucille, was standing over him, herself
dressed for the dinner. By contrast with William’s disordered aspect
Lucille seemed more than beautifully done for the coming evening. When
David came in, his own face ruddy–not with fever but from December rain
in the face–Lucille had her brilliant idea, the idea that promised to
spoil David’s evening. She turned upon him as though he were the only
means of rescue from a desperate situation.

“Oh, Davy! Thank heaven! You can go in Billy’s place!”

“No, I can’t,” replied David MacRoss firmly. “Wherever it is, I can’t
go.”

“Don’t blame you,” muttered William, turning his head so that his nose
burrowed still further into his hot pillow. “You can’t make him go, Lu,
right off the bat like that. Call up Ethel and say it’s off.”

“I simply can’t. She’s counting on us–somebody else has failed her at
the last minute. I promised her absolutely. Oh, Davy! When you know
Billy’s clothes fit you like paper on the wall! _Please!_”

“My plans are made for the evening.” David set down his bag and went
over to his cousin. He and William had been great chums all through
their country boyhood, and were still, though their interests were now
far apart, the best of friends. “What is it? Influenza?” He laid a
sympathetic hand upon a red-hot forehead. “You ought to be in bed. I’ll
stay half an hour and put you to bed. Run along, Lu.”

“I can’t run along alone to a dinner party, Davy. Oh, please!”

It really was of no use to resist. William wasn’t as ill as that. There
was nothing important to do for him–he could take his hot bath and put
himself to bed. As for David’s plans, he had made them, of course, but
they didn’t include anybody else; no tickets had been bought; nothing
was going to be dislocated past help if he gave them up. And he liked
Lucille–it was a pity to disappoint a pretty woman who had got herself
up so artfully as that. In the end he gave in because, though he could
be dogged enough when he chose, he also hated spoiling other people’s
fun when there was nothing special to be dogged about.

So he went into the tiny guest room which was always ready for him–it
was really William’s bit of a private workroom and had a couch-bed in
it. He put on William’s evening clothes, which did indeed fit him like
the paper on the wall, for he was a good twenty pounds heavier than his
slim cousin. William slaved in an office all day, whereas David lived in
the country, a hundred miles out, took plenty of fresh air with his
work, and only came into town every other week-end, to see what had been
happening besides what was in the great dailies. New York was New York,
and he liked it–a certain amount of it–but he liked the old home up in
Connecticut much better, as a steady diet.