it. It is not likely now, as I look at this pond, that I
ever shall.

Yet how simple a thing it seems when done by others. I saw the
difference at once the very next day, the second day of my visit, when
Beverly-Jones took round young Poppleton, the man that I mentioned above
who will presently give a Swiss yodel from a clump of laurel bushes to
indicate that the day's fun has begun.

Poppleton I had known before slightly. I used to see him at the club.
In club surroundings he always struck me as an ineffable young ass, loud
and talkative and perpetually breaking the silence rules. Yet I have
to admit that in his summer flannels and with a straw hat on he can do
things that I can't.

"These big gates," began Beverly-Jones as he showed Poppleton round the
place with me trailing beside them, "we only put up this year."

Poppleton, who has a summer place of his own, looked at the gates very
critically.

"Now, do you know what _I'd_ have done with those gates, if they were
mine?" he said.

"No," said Beverly-Jones.

"I'd have set them two feet wider apart; they're too narrow, old chap,
too narrow." Poppleton shook his head sadly at the gates.

"We had quite a struggle," said Beverly-Jones, "before we finally
decided on sandstone."

I realized that he had one and the same line of talk that he always
used. I resented it. No wonder it was easy for him. "Great mistake,"
said Poppleton. "Too soft. Look at this"--here he picked up a big stone
and began pounding at the gate-post--"see how easily it chips! Smashes
right off. Look at that, the whole corner knocks right off, see!"

Beverly-Jones entered no protest. I began to see that there is a sort of
understanding, a kind of freemasonry, among men who have summer places.
One shows his things; the other runs them down, and smashes them. This
makes the whole thing easy at once. Beverly-Jones showed his lawn.

"Your turf is all wrong, old boy," said Poppleton. "Look! it has no body
to it. See, I can kick holes in it with my heel. Look at that, and that!
If I had on stronger boots I could kick this lawn all to pieces."

"These geraniums along the border," said Beverly-Jones, "are rather an
experiment. They're Dutch."

"But my dear fellow," said Poppleton, "you've got them set in wrongly.
They ought to slope _from_ the sun you know, never _to_ it. Wait a
bit"--here he picked up a spade that was lying where a gardener had been
working--"I'll throw a few out. Notice how