“How long has he been here?”

“Several days.  They happened to come up from the Isles of Shoals together.  He is somehow related to the Simpkinses.  There!  I’ve wasted time enough on you.  I must go and see Mrs. Pendragon about a watermelon party to Jordan Pond.  You’ll see, I’ll arrange something.”

King had no idea what a watermelon party was, but he was pleased to think that it was just the sort of thing that Mr. Meigs would shine in.  He said to himself that he hated dilettante snobs.  His bitter reflections were interrupted by the appearance of Miss Lamont and the artist, and with them Mr. Benson.  The men shook hands with downright heartiness.  Here is a genuine man, King was thinking.

“Yes.  We are still at it,” he said, with his humorous air of resignation.  “I tell my wife that I’m beginning to understand how old Christian felt going through Vanity Fair.  We ought to be pretty near the Heavenly Gates by this time.  I reckoned she thought they opened into Newport.  She said I ought to be ashamed to ridicule the Bible.  I had to have my joke.  It’s queer how different the world looks to women.”

“And how does it look to men?” asked Miss Lamont.

“Well, my dear young lady, it looks like a good deal of fuss, and tolerably large bills.”

“But what does it matter about the bills if you enjoy yourself?”

“That’s just it.  Folks work harder to enjoy themselves than at anything else I know.  Half of them spend more money than they can afford to, and keep under the harrow all the time, just because they see others spend money.”

“I saw your wife and daughter driving away just now,” said King, shifting the conversation to a more interesting topic.

“Yes.  They have gone to take a ride over what they call here the Cornneechy.  It’s a pretty enough road along the bay, but Irene says it’s about as much like the road in Europe they name it from as Green Mountain is like Mount Blanck.  Our folks seem possessed to stick a foreign name on to everything.  And the road round through the scrub to Eagle Lake they call Norway.  If Norway is like that, it’s pretty short of timber.  If there hadn’t been so much lumbering here, I should like it better.  There is hardly a decent pine-tree left.  Mr. Meigs—­they have gone riding with Mr. Meigs—­says the Maine government ought to have a Maine law that amounts to something—­one that will protect the forests, and start up some trees on the coast.”

“Is Mr. Meigs in the lumber business?” asked King.

“Only for scenery, I guess.  He is great on scenery.  He’s a Boston man.  I tell the women that he is what I call a bric-er-brac man.  But you come to set right down with him, away from women, and he talks just as sensible as anybody.  He is shrewd enough.  It beats all how men are with men and with women.”