Winthrop noticed that not once did the Major in his introductions allude to the former’s ownership of Waynewood. And evidently the Major concluded that the fact required elucidation, for when they had finally returned to the corner where stood the Major’s office the latter said: “You may have observed, Mr. Winthrop, that I have not mentioned your ownership of Waynewood. I thought it as well not to, sir, for as you do not intend to take possession this winter there can be no harm in allowing folks to remain in ignorance of――ah――the change. It will make it much easier, sir, for Miss India and her niece. You agree with me?” “Entirely,” replied Winthrop, suppressing a smile. “We will keep the fact a secret for awhile, Major.” “Quite so, sir, quite so. And now, sir, I should be delighted if you would take dinner with me at the hotel, if you will be so kind.” But Winthrop declined and, thanking the other for his kindness, shook hands and turned his steps homeward, or, at least, toward Waynewood; he had begun to doubt his possession of that place. VIII. Winthrop had been at Waynewood a week――a week of which one day had been so like the next that Winthrop remembered them all with impartial haziness and content. It was delightful to have nothing more startling to look forward to than a quail-shoot, a dinner at Sunnyside, or a game of whist in town; to have each day as alike in mellowness and sunshine as they were similar in events, pass softly across the garden, from shadow to shadow, the while he watched its passage with tranquilly smiling eyes and inert body from the seat under the magnolia or a chair on the quiet porch. The past became the flimsiest of ghosts, the future a mere insignificant speck on the far horizon. What mattered it that once his heart had ached? That he was practically penniless? That somewhere men were hurrying and striving for wealth? The sky was hazily blue, the sunlight was wine of gold, the southern breeze was the soothing touch of a soft and fragrant hand that bade him rest and sleep, for there was no yesterday and no morrow, and the taste of lotus was sweet in his mouth. The mornings danced brightly past to the lilt of bird song; the afternoons paced more leisurely, crossing the tangled garden with measured, somnolent tread so quiet that not a leaf stirred, not a bird chirped in the enfolding silence; the evenings grew from purple haze, fragrant with wood-smoke, to blue-black clarity set with a million silver stars whose soft radiance bathed the still world with tender light. Such days and such nights have a spell, and Winthrop was bound.