above the surface
of the water.

Sylvia, reverting to a chance remark, now said: "I never happened to
hear you speak of your mother before. Does she ever come to Lydford?"

He shook his head. "No, she vibrates between the Madison Avenue house
and the Newport one. She's very happy in those two places. She's Mr.
Sommerville's sister, you know. She's one of Morrison's devotees too.
She collects under his guidance."

"Collects?" asked Sylvia, a little vaguely.

"Oh, it doesn't matter much what--the instinct, the resultant
satisfaction are the same. As a child, it's stamps, or buttons,
or corks, later on--As a matter of fact, it's lace that my mother
collects. She specializes in Venetian lace--the older the better, of
course. The connection with coal-mines is obvious. But after all, her
own fortune, coming mostly from the Sommerville side, is derived from
oil. The difference is great!"

"Do you live with her?" asked Sylvia.

"My washing is said to be done in New York," he said seriously. "I
believe that settles the question of residence for a man."

"Oh, how quaint!" said Sylvia, laughing. Then with her trained
instinct for contriving a creditable exit before being driven to an
enforced one by flagging of masculine interest, she rose and looked at
her watch.

"Oh, don't go!" he implored her. "It's so beautiful here--we never
were so--who knows when we'll ever again be in so ..."

Sylvia divined with one of her cymbal-claps that he had meant,
perhaps, that very afternoon to--She felt a dissonant clashing of
triumph and misgiving. She thought she decided quite coolly, quite
dryly, that pursuit always lent luster to the object pursued; but in
reality she did not at all recognize the instinct which bade her say,
turning her watch around on her wrist: "It's quite late. I don't think
I'd better stay longer. Aunt Victoria likes dinner promptly." She
turned to go.

He took his small defeat with his usual imperturbable good nature, in
which Sylvia not infrequently thought she detected a flavor of the
unconscious self-assurance of the very rich and much-courted man.
He scrambled to his feet now promptly, and fell into step with her
quick-treading advance. "You're right, of course. There's no need to
be grasping. There's tomorrow--and the day after--and the day after
that--and if it rains we can wear rubbers and carry umbrellas."

"Oh, I don't carry an umbrella for a walk in the rain," she told him.
"It's one of our quee