I
The day following her illuminating talk with her non-conformist
neighbour, Mrs. Trench remained in bed. To some women a headache is a
godsend. It obviates the necessity for explanation. When she emerged
from the darkened room, she brought with her all the marks of physical
illness, to account for the rasped state of her nerves; but to her
son, at least, the evidence was not convincing. He had witnessed too
many narrow brushes with Death, when Lavinia had something important
to attain or conceal. Had she waited, she might have seized on a
ready-made cause for a period of bad humour ... the outcome of the
Marksley building competition. On Saturday afternoon the contest was
settled, and Larimore Trench was not the winner. The prize had gone
to a Chicago architect. That was not the worst of it. Mrs. Marksley
wrote Lary a letter, informing him that his plans were too stiff and
old-fashioned; but that she would like to buy from him the design
for the cow barn, which was better in some respects than the one the
up-to-date architect had made.
“You remember, Larimore, that was what I said, all along.” Lavinia’s
voice cut both ways. “And if you had gone on, the way you did the cow
barn.... I don’t believe you have forgotten that you put the ornament
on the barn, to please me.”
“No, I haven’t forgotten. I designed the house for people, not for
cows.”