ddered.

He put back his cigar into the corner of his hard mouth. He was
squinting cynically across the rolling golf course. What he saw there
checked his talk. He opened his eyes to get a clearer view. His
impression grew definite and unmistakable. There, half playing and half
sporting, like young lambs upon the close-cropped turf, were Kenyon
Adams and Lila Van Dorn! They were unconscious of all that their gay
antics disclosed. They were happy, and were trying only to express
happiness as they ran together after the ball, that flew in front of
them like a mad butterfly. But in the sad lore of his bleak heart, the
father read the meaning of their happiness. Youth in love was never
innocent for him. Looking at Lila romping with her lover, he turned sick
at heart. But he held himself in hand. Only the zigzag scar on his
forehead flashing white in the pink of his brow betrayed the turmoil
within him. He tried to keep his eyes off the golf course. A sharp dread
that he might transmit himself in nature to posterity only through the
base blood of the Adamses, struck him. He closed his eyes. But the wind
brought to him the merriment of the young voices. A jealousy of Kenyon,
and an anger at him, flared up in the father. So Tom Van Dorn drew down
the corners of his mouth--and batted his furtive eyes, and put on his
bony knee a mottled, nervous hand, with brown splotches at the wrist,
coming up over the veined furrows that led to his tapering fingers, as
he cried harshly in a tone that once had been soft and mellifluous, and
still was deep and chesty: "Still me with flagons, comfort me with
apples, for I am sick of love!"

He would have gone away from the torture that came, as he stared at the
lovers, but his devil held him there. He was glad when a noise of saw
and hammer at the lake drowned the voices on the lawn. His gladness
lasted but a moment. For soon he saw the young people quit chasing their
crazy butterfly of a golf ball, and wander half way up the hill from the
lake, to sit in the snug shade of a wide-spreading, low-branched elm
tree. Then the father was nervous, because he could not hear their
voices. As he sat with the young broker, snarling at the anonymous
phantoms of his past which were bedeviling him, a gray doubt kept
brushing across his mind. He realized clearly that he had no legal right
to question Lila's choice of companions. He understood that the law
would not justify anything that he might do, or say,