"Not one. And they have to be cleared away before they're stale, for
fear we might take one by mistake."

"Poor Mother!"

"My dear, she's found something newer than them all by now."

Felix sighed.

"The nomadic spirit. I have it, too!"

And a sudden vision came to him of his mother's carved ivory face, kept
free of wrinkles by sheer will-power, its firm chin, slightly aquiline
nose, and measured brows; its eyes that saw everything so quickly, so
fastidiously, its compressed mouth that smiled sweetly, with a resolute
but pathetic acceptation. Of the piece of fine lace, sometimes black,
sometimes white, over her gray hair. Of her hands, so thin now, always
moving a little, as if all the composure and care not to offend any eye
by allowing Time to ravage her face, were avenging themselves in that
constant movement. Of her figure, that was short but did not seem so,
still quick-moving, still alert, and always dressed in black or gray.
A vision of that exact, fastidious, wandering spirit called Frances
Fleeming Freeland--that spirit strangely compounded of domination and
humility, of acceptation and cynicism; precise and actual to the
point of desert dryness; generous to a point that caused her family to
despair; and always, beyond all things, brave.

Flora dropped the last little bottle, and sitting on the edge of the
bath let her eyebrows rise. How pleasant was that impersonal humor which
made her superior to other wives!