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 Well, this was a bit too informal. “Going where?” inquired Dirk. The General, too, appeared bewildered.

Roelf explained, delightedly. “It’s a plot. We're all going to drive out to your mother’s. You'll go, won't you? You simply must.”

“Go?” now put in General Goguet. “Where is it that we go? I thought we stayed here, quietly. It is quiet here, and no reception committees.” His tone was wistful.

Roelf attempted to make it clear. “Mr. DeJong’s mother is a farmer. You remember I told you all about her in the ship coming over. She was wonderful to me when I was a kid. She was the first person to tell me what beauty was—is. She’s magnificent. She raises vegetables.”

“Ah! “A farm! But yes! I, too, am a farmer. Well!” He shook Dirk’s hand again. He appeared now for the first time to find him interesting.

“Of course I'll go. Does Mother know you’re coming? She has been hoping she’d see you but she thought you’d grown so grand”

“Wait until I tell her about the day I landed in Paris with five francs in my pocket. No, she doesn’t know we're coming, but she’ll be there, won’t she? I’ve a feeling she'll be there, exactly the same. She will, won’t she?”

“She'll be there.” It was early spring; the busiest of seasons on the farm.

Dallas emerged in greatcoat and a new spring