From Smith’s back door Liz could see ore barges way out in the lake going toward Boyne City.

Hortons Bay, the town, was only five houses on the main road between Boyne City and Charlevoix.

My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations.

Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound.

The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea.