There had been a time, now long ago, when the two Newberrys had lived, both of them, on twenty dollars a week, and Mrs.Newberry had made her own dresses, and Mr.
Newberry had spent vigorous evenings in making hand-made shelves for their sitting-room.

That was long ago, and since then Mr.Newberry, like many other people of those earlier days, had risen to wealth and Castel Casteggio, while others, like Norah's father, had stayed just where they were.
So the Newberrys left Peter and Norah to themselves all day.

Even after dinner, in the evening, Mr.Newberry was very apt to call to his wife in the dusk from some distant corner of the lawn: "Margaret, come over here and tell me if you don't think we might cut down this elm, tear the stump out by the roots, and throw it into the ravine." And the answer was, "One minute, Edward; just wait till I get a wrap." Before they came back, the dusk had grown to darkness, and they had redynamited half the estate.
During all of which time Mr.Spillikins sat with Norah on the piazza.
He talked and she listened.

He told her, for instance, all about his terrific experiences in the oil business, and about his exciting career at college; or presently they went indoors and Norah played the piano and Mr.Spillikins sat and smoked and listened.

In such a house as the Newberry's, where dynamite and the greater explosives were everyday matters, a little thing like the use of tobacco in the drawing-room didn't count.