know."

"Well," said Hollanden crossly, "you must never expect a man to do what
he starts to do, Millicent. And besides," he went on, with the gleam of
a sudden idea in his eyes, "literary men are not peculiar, anyhow."

The elder Worcester girl looked angrily at him. "Indeed? Not you, of
course, but the others."

"They are all asses," said Hollanden genially.

The elder Worcester girl reflected. "I believe you try to make us think
and then just tangle us up purposely!"

The younger Worcester girl reflected. "You are an absurd old thing, you
know, Hollie!"

Hollanden climbed offendedly from the great weather-beaten stone. "Well,
I shall go and see that the men have not spilled the luncheon while
breaking their necks over these rocks. Would you like to have it spread
here, Mrs. Fanhall? Never mind consulting the girls. I assure you I
shall spend a great deal of energy and temper in bullying them into
doing just as they please. Why, when I was in Brussels----"

"Oh, come now, Hollie, you never were in Brussels, you know," said the
younger Worcester girl.

"What of that, Millicent?" demanded Hollanden. "This is autobiography."

"Well, I don't care, Hollie. You tell such whoppers."

With a gesture of despair he again started away; whereupon the
Worcester girls shouted in chorus, "Oh, I say, Hollie, come back! Don't
be angry. We didn't mean to tease you, Hollie--really, we didn't!"

"Well, if you didn't," said Hollanden, "why did you----"

The elder Worcester girl was gazing fixedly at the top of the cliff.
"Oh, there they are! I wonder why they don't come down?"

CHAPTER VI.

Stanley, the setter, walked to the edge of the precipice and, looking
over at the falls, wagged his tail in friendly greeting. He was braced
warily, so that if this howling white animal should reach up a hand for
him he could flee in time.

The girl stared dreamily at the red-stained crags that projected from
the pines of the hill across the stream. Hawker lazily aimed bits of
moss at the oblivious dog and missed him.

"It must be fine to have something to think of beyond just living," said
the girl to the crags.

"I suppose you mean art?" said Hawker.

"Yes, of course. It must be finer, at any rate, than the ordinary
thing."

He mused for a time. "Yes. It is--it must be," he said. "But then--I'd
rather just lie here."

The girl seemed aggrieved. "Oh, no, you wouldn't. You couldn't stop.
It's dreadful to talk like that