“Ludwell may yet marry.”

Fairfax Cary shook his head.  “No.  He’ll never marry.  If the Carys are obstinate, sir, they are also constant.”

Major Churchill rose, turned to the bookshelves, and drew forth a volume.  “Is he not over that?” he asked harshly.

“No, he is not.  He’ll never be over it.  And they say matches are made in heaven!”

“Bah!  They are made on earth, and cracked hearts can be mended like any other cracked ware.  ‘A little crudded milk, fantastical puff-paste,’ with a woman’s name—­and it has power to turn the sunshine black!  Let him play the man and put her out of mind!”

“He does play the man,” answered the other, with spirit.  “He neither sulks nor shirks.  It remains that there was but one woman in the world for him, and that she is at Roselands with Lewis Rand.”

The Major’s book fell with a crash to the floor.  He stooped quickly and recovered it before the younger man could give him service.  “I shall run Mustapha on the sixteenth at Staunton against Carter’s York,” he said, in a shaking voice.  “Have you seen that Barbary mare Dick has gotten over from England?”

“No,” answered the young man.  “I’ll take a look at the stables before I go.  What is your book, sir?”

“It is”—­said the Major.  “I’m damned if I know what it is!” and he looked at the volume in his hand.  “Paul and Virginia—­faugh!” He threw the book down and stalked to the window.  Fairfax Cary sat in silence, one booted knee over the other, an arm upon the back of his chair, and the riding-whip depending from his hand.  The Major turned.  “They have laid down Pope, and Mr. Page is making his adieux!  Humph!  I can remember a day when the poem was considered vastly moving.  I would advise you to strike while the iron is hot.”

“Sometimes I think it will take an earthquake to move her toward me,” said the other.  “I’ll give Page three minutes in which to clear out, and then I’ll try again.  It would amuse you, sir, to know how many times I have tried.  If to have an object in life is praiseworthy, I am much to be lauded!”

“You have always evinced a fine determination,” admitted the Major.  “Well, life must have an object, fair or foul.  With it, cark and care; without it, ditchwater!  This way disappointment; that, fungi on a log.  Vanity in either direction, but a man of honour must prefer the rack to the stocks.”

Fairfax Cary looked at his watch.  “Page’s time is up.  I’ll go pursue my object, sir.”

The pursuit took him over the greensward to the bench built around the great catalpa.  The heat of the day was broken and the evening shadows lay upon the grass.  Mr. Page was gone.  Unity sat beneath the catalpa, elbow on knee and chin in hand, studying a dandelion at her feet.  The poetical works of Mr. Alexander Pope lay at a distance, face down.  The sky between the broad catalpa leaves was very blue, and a long ray of sunshine sifted through to gild the tendrils of Miss Dandridge’s hair and to slide in brightness down her flowery gown.  She glanced at the young man striding towards her from the house, then again admired the dandelion.