“Oh yes, I work.  When my undigested lump gets too painful I try to work it off—­but what I do bears the same relation to real sure-enough work that playing tennis does to laying brick.  But such as it is, it’s real satisfaction I get out of my minute Vermont holdings.  They come down to me from my farmer great-grandfather who held the land by working it himself.  There’s no sore spot there.  But speak of Colorado or coal—­and you see me jump with the same shooting twinge you feel when the dentist’s probe reaches a nerve.  An intelligent conscience is a luxury a man in my position can’t afford to have.”  He began with great accuracy to toss small stones at a log showing above the surface of the water.

Sylvia, reverting to a chance remark, now said:  “I never happened to hear you speak of your mother before.  Does she ever come to Lydford?”

He shook his head.  “No, she vibrates between the Madison Avenue house and the Newport one.  She’s very happy in those two places.  She’s Mr. Sommerville’s sister, you know.  She’s one of Morrison’s devotees too.  She collects under his guidance.”

“Collects?” asked Sylvia, a little vaguely.

“Oh, it doesn’t matter much what—­the instinct, the resultant satisfaction are the same.  As a child, it’s stamps, or buttons, or corks, later on—­As a matter of fact, it’s lace that my mother collects.  She specializes in Venetian lace—­the older the better, of course.  The connection with coal-mines is obvious.  But after all, her own fortune, coming mostly from the Sommerville side, is derived from oil.  The difference is great!”

“Do you live with her?” asked Sylvia.

“My washing is said to be done in New York,” he said seriously.  “I believe that settles the question of residence for a man.”

“Oh, how quaint!” said Sylvia, laughing.  Then with her trained instinct for contriving a creditable exit before being driven to an enforced one by flagging of masculine interest, she rose and looked at her watch.

“Oh, don’t go!” he implored her.  “It’s so beautiful here—­we never were so—­who knows when we’ll ever again be in so ...”

Sylvia divined with one of her cymbal-claps that he had meant, perhaps, that very afternoon to—­She felt a dissonant clashing of triumph and misgiving.  She thought she decided quite coolly, quite dryly, that pursuit always lent luster to the object pursued; but in reality she did not at all recognize the instinct which bade her say, turning her watch around on her wrist:  “It’s quite late.  I don’t think I’d better stay longer.  Aunt Victoria likes dinner promptly.”  She turned to go.

He took his small defeat with his usual imperturbable good nature, in which Sylvia not infrequently thought she detected a flavor of the unconscious self-assurance of the very rich and much-courted man.  He scrambled to his feet now promptly, and fell into step with her quick-treading advance.  “You’re right, of course.  There’s no need to be grasping.  There’s tomorrow—­and the day after—­and the day after that—­and if it rains we can wear rubbers and carry umbrellas.”