e morrow,
the routine he had established. As his eyes rested on the cottage
nestled in its little domain that commanded several miles of the
shore-line, he reflected complacently on his business sense which had
led him to develop Wolf Head. He had managed, so far, skilfully, and
this matter of a daughter that would come to a crisis during the next
five years should be handled successfully. No one could be said to
have the confidence of the doctor; one would not look to him for
confidences of any sort. Did he ever betray any doubts as to the
desirability of his career? Indeed, he never put the question to
himself. Fate had caught him in a vice; he had spent eighteen active
years in padding that vice. Yet he mused as a man will at the close of
a busy day, wondering what compelling power drives him over the wonted
round.

Suddenly he heard voices on his lawn, and instinctively stepped from
the gravel path to the grass. There was a long murmur of a low voice;
he wondered at his own intensity in listening. Something in the timbre
of the voice, some suppressed emotional quality, struck his
experienced ear. When the sound ceased he advanced carefully along the
hedge until he came to an opening that gave a view to the lawn. The
voice was his daughter's, as he had guessed; beside her was stretched
a man's figure in flannels, probably Long's. It was simple enough:
tired after their tennis they had flung themselves down where the
hedge sheltered them from the evening breeze and were talking. But
their attitude arrested him; he felt an undue strain in the air.
Presently Long spoke with a low, slow utterance, as if ordering his
words. His face was turned away from the doctor, looking up steadily
at the girl.

"Yes," he said, and the doctor felt he ought to walk on, "it's hard on
a man. You see so many fellows who have failed who are just as good as
you are----"

"No, no; not just as good," the girl interrupted, "there is
_something_ different."

"Well, as far as you can see they are just as good; they have worked
terribly hard. Then you shut your teeth and go in again, working
desperately from the first light to the last peep until you are
plugged out."

"Then?" his companion said, eagerly.

"Perhaps you crawl out to Lavenue's and sit there in the evening
watching the people sip and talk, the girls sauntering home, or the
students who are gassing forever. It doesn't seem to make any
difference what you do then, whether you