Almost immediately after the singing of the “Gypsy Trail,” Paula emerged from her seclusion¹, and Graham found himself hard put, in the tower room, to keep resolutely² to his work when all the morning he could hear snatches of song and opera from her wing, or laughter and scolding of dogs from the great patio⁴, or the continuous pulse for hours of the piano from the distant music room. But Graham, patterning after Dick, devoted⁵ his mornings to work, so that he rarely encountered Paula before lunch.  
She made announcement that her spell of insomnia⁶ was over and that she was ripe for all gaieties and excursions Dick had to offer her. Further, she threatened, in case Dick grudged⁷ these personal diversions, to fill the house with guests and teach him what liveliness was. It was at this time that her Aunt Martha—­Mrs. Tully—­ returned for a several days’ visit, and that Paula resumed the driving of Duddy and Fuddy in the high, one-seated Stude-baker trap. Duddy and Fuddy were spirited trotters, but Mrs. Tully, despite her elderliness and avoirdupois, was without timidity when Paula held the reins⁸.
 
As Mrs. Tully told Graham: “And that is a concession⁹ I make to no woman save Paula. She is the only woman I can trust myself to with horses. She has the horse-way about her. When she was a child she was wild over horses. It’s a wonder she didn’t become a circus rider.”
 
More, much more, Graham learned about Paula in various chats with her aunt. Of Philip Desten, Paula’s father, Mrs. Tully could never say enough. Her eldest¹⁰ brother, and older by many years, he had been her childhood prince. His ways had been big ways, princely ways—ways that to commoner folk had betokened¹¹ a streak¹² of madness. He was continually guilty of the wildest things and the most chivalrous¹³ things. It was this streak that had enabled him to win various fortunes, and with equal facility to lose them, in the great gold adventure of Forty-nine. Himself of old New England stock, he had had for great grandfather a Frenchman—a trifle of flotsam from a mid-ocean wreck¹⁴ and landed to grow up among the farmer-sailormen of the coast of Maine.
 
“And once, and once only, in each generation, that French Desten crops out,” Mrs. Tully assured Graham. “Philip was that Frenchman in his generation, and who but Paula, and in full measure, received that same inheritance in her generation. Though Lute³ and Ernestine are her half-sisters, no one would imagine one drop of the common blood was shared. That’s why Paula, instead of going circus-riding, drifted inevitably¹⁵ to France. It was that old original Desten that drew her over.”
 
And of the adventure in France, Graham learned much. Philip Desten’s luck had been to die when the wheel of his fortune had turned over and down. Ernestine and Lute, little tots, had been easy enough for Desten’s sisters to manage. But Paula, who had fallen to Mrs. Tully, had been the problem—­"because of that Frenchman.”
 
“Oh, she is rigid¹⁶ New England,” Mrs. Tully insisted, “the solidest of creatures as to honor and rectitude, dependableness and faithfulness. As a girl she really couldn’t bring herself to lie, except to save others. In which case all her New England ancestry¹⁷ took flight and she would lie as magnificently as her father before her. And he had the same charm of manner, the same daring, the same ready laughter, the same vivacity¹⁸. But what is lightsome and blithe¹⁹ in her, was debonaire in him. He won men’s hearts always, or, failing that, their bitterest enmity. No one was left cold by him in passing. Contact with him quickened them to love or hate. Therein Paula differs, being a woman, I suppose, and not enjoying man’s prerogative²⁰ of tilting²¹ at windmills. I don’t know that she has an enemy in the world. All love her, unless, it may well be, there are cat-women who envy her her nice husband.”
 
And as Graham listened, Paula’s singing came through the open window from somewhere down the long arcades²², and there was that ever-haunting thrill in her voice that he could not escape remembering afterward²³. She burst into laughter, and Mrs. Tully beamed to him and nodded at the sound.
 
“There laughs Philip Desten,” she murmured, “and all the Frenchwomen behind the original Frenchman who was brought into Penobscot, dressed in homespun, and sent to meeting. Have you noticed how Paula’s laugh invariably makes everybody look up and smile? Philip’s laugh did the same thing.”
 
“Paula had always been passionately²⁵ fond of music, painting, drawing. As a little girl she could be traced around the house and grounds by the trail she left behind her of images and shapes, made in whatever medium she chanced upon—­drawn on scraps²⁶ of paper, scratched on bits of wood, modeled in mud and sand.
 
“She loved everything, and everything loved her,” said Mrs. Tully. “She was never timid of animals. And yet she always stood in awe²⁷ of them; but she was born sense-struck, and her awe was beauty-awe. Yes, she was an incorrigible²⁸ hero-worshiper, whether the person was merely beautiful or did things. And she never will outgrow²⁹ that beauty—­awe of anything she loves, whether it is a grand piano, a great painting, a beautiful mare³⁰, or a bit of landscape.
 
“And Paula had wanted to do, to make beauty herself. But she was sorely puzzled whether she should devote herself to music or painting. In the full swing of work under the best masters in Boston, she could not refrain from straying back to her drawing. From her easel she was lured³¹ to modeling.
 
“And so, with her love of the best, her soul and heart full of beauty, she grew quite puzzled and worried over herself, as to which talent was the greater and if she had genius at all. I suggested a complete rest from work and took her abroad for a year. And of all things, she developed a talent for dancing. But always she harked back to her music and painting. No, she was not flighty. Her trouble was that she was too talented—­”
 
“Too diversely talented,” Graham amplified³².
 
“Yes, that is better,” Mrs. Tully nodded. “But from talent to genius is a far cry, and to save my life, at this late day, I don’t know whether the child ever had a trace of genius in her. She has certainly not done anything big in any of her chosen things.”
 
“Except to be herself,” Graham added.
 
“Which is the big thing,” Mrs. Tully accepted with a smile of enthusiasm. “She is a splendid, unusual woman, very unspoiled, very natural. And after all, what does doing things amount to? I’d give more for one of Paula’s madcap escapades—­oh, I heard all about swimming the big stallion—­than for all her pictures if every one was a masterpiece. But she was hard for me to understand at first. Dick often calls her the girl that never grew up. But gracious, she can put on the grand air when she needs to. I call her the most mature child I have ever seen. Dick was the finest thing that ever happened to her. It was then that she really seemed for the first time to find herself. It was this way.”
 
And Mrs. Tully went on to sketch³³ the year of travel in Europe, the resumption of Paula’s painting in Paris, and the conviction she finally reached that success could be achieved only by struggle and that her aunt’s money was a handicap.
 
“And she had her way,” Mrs. Tully sighed. “She—­why, she dismissed me, sent me home. She would accept no more than the meagerest allowance, and went down into the Latin Quarter on her own, batching with two other American girls. And she met Dick. Dick was a rare one. You couldn’t guess what he was doing then. Running a cabaret—­oh, not these modern cabarets, but a real students’ cabaret of sorts. It was very select. They were a lot of madmen. You see, he was just back from some of his wild adventuring at the ends of the earth, and, as he stated it, he wanted to stop living life for a while and to talk about life instead.
 
“Paula took me there once. Oh, they were engaged—­the day before, and he had called on me and all that. I had known ‘Lucky’ Richard Forrest, and I knew all about his son. From a worldly standpoint, Paula couldn’t have made a finer marriage. It was quite a romance. Paula had seen him captain the University of California eleven to victory over Stanford. And the next time she saw him was in the studio she shared with the two girls. She didn’t know whether Dick was worth millions or whether he was running a cabaret because he was hard up, and she cared less. She always followed her heart. Fancy the situation: Dick the uncatchable, and Paula who never flirted³⁴. They must have sprung forthright³⁵ into each other’s arms, for inside the week it was all arranged, and Dick made his call on me, as if my decision meant anything one way or the other.
 
“But Dick’s cabaret. It was the Cabaret of the Philosophers—­a small pokey place, down in a cellar, in the heart of the Quarter, and it had only one table. Fancy that for a cabaret! But such a table! A big round one, of plain boards, without even an oil-cloth, the wood stained with the countless³⁶ drinks spilled by the table-pounding of the philosophers, and it could seat thirty. Women were not permitted. An exception was made for Paula and me.
 
“You’ve met Aaron Hancock here. He was one of the philosophers, and to this day he swaggers that he owed Dick a bigger bill that never was paid than any of his customers. And there they used to meet, all those wild young thinkers, and pound the table, and talk philosophy in all the tongues of Europe. Dick always had a penchant³⁷ for philosophers.
 
“But Paula spoiled that little adventure. No sooner were they married than Dick fitted out his schooner³⁸, the All Away, and away the blessed pair of them went, honeymooning³⁹ from Bordeaux to Hongkong.”
 
“And the cabaret was closed, and the philosophers left homeless and discussionless,” Graham remarked.
 
Mrs. Tully laughed heartily⁴⁰ and shook her head.
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