be short of
money--he's too large.

We have family prayers at eight, then, breakfast--after that freedom for
writing or anything else till supper and evening prayers. At midday one
forages for oneself. On Sundays, two miles to church twice, or you
get into John Ford's black books.... Dan Treffry himself is staying at
Kingswear. He says he's made his pile; it suits him down here--like a
sleep after years of being too wide-awake; he had a rough time in New
Zealand, until that mine made his fortune. You'd hardly remember him;
he reminds me of his uncle, old Nicholas Treffry; the same slow way of
speaking, with a hesitation, and a trick of repeating your name with
everything he says; left-handed too, and the same slow twinkle in his
eyes. He has a dark, short beard, and red-brown cheeks; is a little bald
on the temples, and a bit grey, but hard as iron. He rides over nearly
every day, attended by a black spaniel with a wonderful nose and a
horror of petticoats. He has told me lots of good stories of John Ford
in the early squatter's times; his feats with horses live to this day;
and he was through the Maori wars; as Dan says, "a man after Uncle Nic's
own heart."

They are very good friends, and respect each other; Dan has a great
admiration for the old man, but the attraction is Pasiance. He talks
very little when she's in the room, but looks at her in a sidelong,
wistful sort of way. Pasiance's conduct to him would be cruel in any one
else, but in her, one takes it with a pinch of salt. Dan goes off, but
turns up again as quiet and dogged as you please.

Last night, for instance, we were sitting in the loggia after supper.
Pasiance was fingering the strings of her violin, and suddenly Dan (a
bold thing for him) asked her to play.

"What!" she said, "before men? No, thank you!"

"Why not?"

"Because I hate them."

Down came John Ford's hand on the wicker table: "You forget yourself! Go
to bed!"

She gave Dan a look, and went; we could hear her playing in her bedroom;
it sounded like a dance of spirits; and just when one thought she had
finished, out it would break again like a burst of laughter. Presently,
John Ford begged our pardons ceremoniously, and stumped off indoors. The
violin ceased; we heard his voice growling at her; down he came
again. Just as he was settled in his chair there was a soft swish, and
something dark came falling through the apple boughs. The violin! You
should have seen his face! Dan wou