He was looking up to the boughs overhead, but he suddenly glanced toward her and then quietly removed one of his hands and slipped it down to the book which was lying on his lap.  Sylvia took quiet note of the movement.  The book had been lying shut upon his lap, with its back toward her.  Garratt Skinner did not alter its position; but she saw that his hand now hid from her the title on the back.  It was a big, and had the appearance of an expensive, book.  She noticed the binding—­green cloth boards and gold lettering on the back.  She was not familiar with the look of it, and it seemed to her that she might as well know—­and as quickly as possible—­what the book was and the subject with which it dealt.

Meanwhile Garratt Skinner repeated: 

“A deep fellow—­Captain Barstow,” and anxiously Garratt Skinner debated how to cope with that deep fellow.  He came at last to his conclusion.

“We can’t shut our doors to him, Sylvia.”

Even though she had half expected just that answer, Sylvia flinched as she heard it uttered.

“I understand your feelings, my dear,” he continued in tones of commiseration, “for they are mine.  But we must fight the Barstows with the Barstows’ weapons.  It would never do for us to close our doors.  He has far too tight a hold of Wallie Hine as yet.  He has only to drop a hint to Wallie that we are trying to separate him from his true friends and keep him to ourselves—­and just think, my dear, what a horrible set of motives a mean-minded creature like Barstow could impute to us!  Let us be candid, you and I,” cried Garratt Skinner, starting up, as though carried away by candor.  “Here am I, a poor man—­here are you, my daughter, a girl with the charm and the beauty of the spring, and here’s Wallie Hine, rich, weak, and susceptible.  Oh, there’s a story for a Barstow to embroider!  But, Sylvia, he shall not so much as hint at the story.  For your sake, my dear, for your sake,” cried Garratt Skinner, with all the emphasis of a loving father.  He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.

“I was carried away by my argument,” he went on in a calmer voice.  Sylvia for her part had not been carried away at all, and no doubt her watchful composure helped him to subdue as ineffective the ardor of his tones.  “Barstow has only to drop this hint to Wallie Hine, and Wallie will be off like a rabbit at the sound of a gun.  And there’s our chance gone of helping him to a better life.  No, we must welcome Barstow, if he comes here.  Yes, actually welcome him, however repugnant it may be to our feelings.  That’s what we must do, Sylvia.  He must have no suspicion that we are working against him.  We must lull him to sleep.  That is our only way to keep Wallie Hine with us.  So that, Sylvia, must be our plan of campaign.”

The luncheon bell rang as he ended his oration.  He got out of the hammock quickly, as if to prevent discussion of his plan; and the book which he was carrying caught in the netting of the hammock and fell to the ground.  Sylvia could read the title now.  She did read it, hastily, as Garratt Skinner stooped to pick it up.  It was entitled “The Alps in 1864.”