Her eyes—­had they been blue or black?  Blue, he was quite sure, although the masses of her hair had been like night for dusky splendour, and her cheeks of that rich bloom which denotes young vigour and radiant health.  He could hear her voice now, quoting a serious poet to fit a madcap mood—­and quoting him in such a voice!  What were the words?  He remembered her mockingly exaggerated inflection: 

“’O, it is excellent
To have a giant’s strength; but it is tyrannous
To use it like a giant!’”

Well, from his flash-fire observation of her he should say that a man might need a giant’s strength to overcome her, if she chose to oppose him, in any situation whatever.  What a glorious task—­to overcome her—­to teach that lovely, teasing voice gentler words—­

He laughed again.  Since he had left college he had not been so interested in what was coming next—­not even on the day he met Amelie Penstoff in St. Petersburg—­nor on the day, in Japan, when his friend Rogers made an appointment with him to meet that little slant-eyed girl, half Japanese, half French, and whole minx—­the beauty!—­he could not even recall her name at this moment—­with whom he had had an absorbing experience he should be quite unwilling to repeat.  And now, here was a girl—­a very different sort of girl—­who interested him more than any of them.  He wondered what was her name.  Whatever it was, he would know it soon—­call her by it—­soon.

He went home.  He did not tell his grandfather that night.  There was not much use in putting it off, but—­somehow—­he preferred to wait till morning.  Business sounds more like business—­in the morning.

* * * * *

The first result of his telling his grandfather in the morning was a note from old Matthew Kendrick to old Judge Gray.  The note, which almost chuckled aloud, was as follows: 

My dear Calvin gray:  Work him—­work the rascal hard!  He’s a lazy chap with a way with him which plays the deuce with my foolish old heart.  I could make my own son work, and did; but this son of his—­that seems to be another matter.  Yet I know well enough the dangers of idleness—­know them so well that I’m tickled to death at the mere thought of his putting in his time at any useful task.  He did well enough in college; there are brains there unquestionably.  I didn’t object seriously to his travelling—­for a time—­after his graduation; but that sort of life has gone on long enough, and when I talk to him of settling down at some steady job it’s always “after one more voyage.”  I don’t yet understand what has given him the impulse—­whim—­caprice—­I don’t venture to give it any stronger name—­to accept this literary task from you.  He vows he’s not met the women of your household, or I should think that might explain it.  I hope he will meet them—­all of them; they’ll be good for him—­and so will you, Cal.  Do your best by the boy for my sake, and believe me, now as always,