Bassett was troubled by other things that summer than his son’s education.  Harwood’s declaration of war in the White River Canneries matter had proved wholly disagreeable, and Fitch had not been able to promise that the case might not come to trial, to Bassett’s discomfiture.  It was a hot summer, and Bassett had spent a good deal of time in his office at the Boordman Building, where Harwood’s name no longer adorned the door of Room 66.  The ‘Advertiser’ continued to lay on the lash for his defeat of the appropriations necessary to sustain several important state institutions while he carried through his corporation bill.  They were saying in some quarters that he had lost his head, and that he was now using his political power for personal warfare upon his enemies.  Thatcher loomed formidably as a candidate for the leadership, and many predicted that Bassett’s power was at last broken.  On the other hand, Bassett’s old lieutenants smiled knowingly; the old Bassett machine was still in perfect running order, they said, as Thatcher would learn when he felt the wheels grinding him.

Bassett saw Sylvia daily, and he was wary of her at first.  She had dealt him a staggering blow that rainy evening at the door of Elizabeth House—­a blow which, from her, had an effect more poignant than she knew.  That incident was ended, however, and he felt that he had nothing to fear from her.  No one appreciates candor so thoroughly as the man who is habitually given to subterfuge, evasion, and dissimulation.  Sylvia’s consent to tutor Blackford indicated a kindly feeling toward the family.  It was hardly likely that she would report to Mrs. Bassett his indiscretions with Rose Farrell.  And his encounters with Sylvia had moreover encouraged the belief that she viewed life broadly and tolerantly.

There was little for a man of Bassett’s tastes to do at Waupegan.  Most of the loungers at the Casino were elderly men who played bridge, which he despised; and he cared little for fishing or boating.  Tennis and golf did not tempt him.  His wife had practically ceased to be a figure in the social life of the colony; Marian was away, and Blackford’s leisure was spent with boys of his own age.  Morton Bassett was lonely.

It thus happened that he looked forward with growing interest to Sylvia’s daily visits to his house.  He found that he could mark her progress from Mrs. Owen’s gate round the lake to his own cottage from the window of a den he maintained in the attic.  He remained there under the hot shingles, conscious of her presence in his house throughout her two hours with Blackford.  Once or twice he took himself off to escape from her; but on these occasions he was surprised to find that he was back on the veranda when Sylvia emerged from the living-room with her pupil.  She was always cheery, and she never failed to say something heartening of Blackford’s work.