Scott, pretending to be very busy untangling Grandcourt’s cast from the branches of a lusty young birch, said, “No, of course not,” and the girl, wondering, turned to Kathleen, who sustained her questioning eyes without a tremor.

“What’s the matter with Scott?” asked his sister.  “He’s the guiltiest-looking man—­why, it’s absurd, Kathleen!  Upon my word, the boy is blushing!”

“What!” exclaimed Scott so furiously that everybody laughed.  And presently Geraldine asked again where Duane was.

“Rosalie Dysart is canoeing on the Gray Water, and she hailed him and he left us and went down to the river,” said Kathleen carelessly.

“Did Duane join her?”

“I think so—­” She hesitated, watching Geraldine’s sombre eyes.  “I really don’t know,” she added.  And, in a lower voice:  “I wish either Duane or Rosalie would go.  They certainly are behaving unwisely.”

Geraldine turned and looked through the woods toward the Gray Water.

“It’s their affair,” she said curtly.  “I’ve got to make Delancy fish or we won’t have enough trout for luncheon.  Scott!” calling to her brother, “your horrid trout won’t rise this morning.  For goodness’ sake, try to catch something beside lizards and water-beetles!”

For a moment she stood looking around her, as though perplexed and preoccupied.  There was sunlight on the glade and on the ripples, but the daylight seemed to have become duller to her.

She walked up-stream for a little distance before she noticed Grandcourt plodding faithfully at her heels.

“Oh!” she said impatiently, “I thought you were fishing.  You must catch something, you know, or we’ll all go hungry.”

“Nothing bites on these bally flies,” he explained.

“Nothing bites because your flies are usually caught in a tree-top.  Trout are not arboreal.  I’m ashamed of you, Delancy.  If you can’t keep your line free in the woods”—­she hesitated, then reddening a little under her tan—­“you had better go and get a canoe and find Duane Mallett and help him catch—­something worth while.”

“Don’t you want me to stay with you?” asked the big, awkward fellow appealingly.  “There’s no fun in being with Rosalie and Duane.”

“No, I don’t.  Look!  Your flies are in that bush!  Untangle them and go to the Gray Water.”

“Won’t you come, too, Miss Seagrave?”

“No; I’m going back to the house....  And don’t you dare return without a decent brace of trout.”

“All right,” he said resignedly.  The midges bothered him; he mopped his red face, tugged at the line, but the flies were fast in a hazel bush.

“Damn this sort of thing,” he muttered, looking piteously after Geraldine.  She was already far away among the trees, skirts wrapped close to avoid briers, big straw hat dangling in one hand.

As she walked toward the Sachem’s Gate she was swinging her hat and singing, apparently as unconcernedly as though care rested lightly upon her young shoulders.