The summer passed slowly to most of them: to Blair, impatiently awaiting news from England; to his wife, vexed with him for his action; to Sylvia, who began to feel a painful sense of disappointment and narrowness and emptiness in existence; to Lewis, prematurely burdened with the problems of life; to all, except Skelton. Indeed, time had a way of flying frightfully fast with him, and he barely recovered the shock and surprise of one birthday before another was precipitated on him. And yet he was going about that book as if the ages were his! He had quite given up his racing affairs to Miles Lightfoot, and was apparently devoting himself to some abstruse studies in his library. So he was--but Sylvia Shapleigh was the subject. Although a very arrogant and confident man, Skelton was too clear-headed not to consider the possibility that Sylvia might not marry him, but it was always difficult for him to comprehend that he could not have his own way about anything he desired. He meant, however, to be very prudent. He would bring all of his finesse and worldly wisdom to bear, and he would not be outwitted by any woman. So thought Samson of old. Skelton did not go to Belfield very often, but in one way and another he saw Sylvia pretty constantly. He never could quite make out the faint resentment in her manner to him. But the truth, from Sylvia’s point of view, was, that he had come into her life and disorganised it, and made her dissatisfied with what before had satisfied her, and had shown her other ideals and standards which were beyond her reach; and, on the whole, Sylvia reckoned Skelton among the enemies of her peace. In August, Mrs. Shapleigh usually made her hegira to the Springs. One of Sylvia’s crimes in her mother’s eyes was that she was not always madly anxious to be off on this annual jaunt. But this year nobody could complain that Sylvia was not ready enough to go. So eager was she for a change, that Mrs. Shapleigh declared Sylvia would go off without a rag to her back if it were not for a mother’s devotion. Lewis Pryor dreaded her going, and he seemed really the only person whom Sylvia regretted. But Skelton found himself secretly very much dissatisfied with the idea that Sylvia should go away. One hot August afternoon, after having seen the great Belfield carriage drive out of the lane with Mr. and Mrs. Shapleigh, and seeing Sylvia’s white figure fluttering about on the river shore, Skelton concluded that he would walk across the bridge and call on Mr. and Mrs. Shapleigh, which would result, of course, in his seeing only Sylvia. The day had been sultry, and not a breath stirred the giant trees around Deerchase. There were masses of coppery clouds in the west, and, although the sun blazed redly, the river was dark. Skelton predicted a thunderstorm as he crossed the bridge. Down by the water was Sylvia, with a rustic hat tied under her chin.