Occasionally the memory of his offensive title obtruded itself as a bar to that confidence which is the foundation of friendship, but as she knew him better it became more difficult to believe that he could ever have been, in its coarser sense, what that title signified. As regarded herself, there was never on his part the faintest suggestion of anything that could be interpreted as love-making, or even as the mildest attempt at a flirtation. She found him under all conditions simple and unassuming, and, she was forced to admit, with no visible tokens of that personal vanity with which she had so lavishly endowed him. His serious business in life was the management of the Judd farm, and although the care and development of his animals was more of a recreation than a rigid necessity he wasted little money in unsuccessful experiments. Mr. Cabot soon discovered that he was far more practical and business-like than his leisurely manners seemed to indicate. The fondness for animals that seemed one of his strongest characteristics was more an innate affection than a breeder’s fancy. Every animal on his place, from the thoroughbred horses to the last litter of pups, he regarded more as personal friends than as objects of commercial value. When Mr. Cabot and Molly made their first visit to the farm, they noticed in the corner of a field a number of dejected horses huddled solemnly together. Most of them were well beyond middle age and bore the clearest indications of a future that was devoid of promise. They gazed at the visitors with listless eyes, and as a congregation seemed burdened with most of the physical imperfections of extreme antiquity. “What on earth are those?” asked Mr. Cabot. “Revolutionary relics? They are too fat for invalids.” “A few friends of my youth.” “I should think from the number you have here that you never disposed of your old friends,” said Mr. Cabot. “Only when life is a burden.” “Well, I am glad to see them,” said Molly, as she patted one or two of the noses that were thrust toward her. “It does you credit. I think it is horrid to sell a horse that has used himself up in your service.” As the father and daughter walked homeward along the avenue of maples, Mr. Cabot spoke of the pleasure the young man derived from his animals, and the good sense he displayed in the management of his farm. “Yes,” said Molly, “and he seems too boyish and full of fun for anything very weird or uncanny. But Mr. Fettiplace certainly believed in something of that kind, didn’t he?” “Of course, or he wouldn’t be Fettiplace. That sort of thing is always interesting, and the world is full of people who can believe anything if they once put their minds on it. Who is that in our yard?” “Deacon White, I think. He has come to train up some plants for me.” A moment later she took her father’s arm and asked, with affected humility: “Jimsey, will you do something?” “No, for it’s sure to be foolish.”