Albert had come back then, sooner than he had expected. Visitors from other counties where tobacco was grown had met in the town, and men from the farms lying close about had been conferring with these. Conway’s report of the busy day followed her through the house after his departure. Young women had given their time to the growers’ project, typing in the offices, writing letters, carrying the visiting farmers from place to place in their cars. She had kept at home all day and the trills had mounted; she had not known of the business in the town. “The pool is something, but I am something else,” she thought. She made ready for the call her grandfather had asked her to make for him. When she returned from this errand Albert was at hand; he had been let in by Horace and was sitting relaxed in his chair, recounting his day. “I’m dead tired,” he said, when they were alone. He began to tell of his journey through three counties. His eyes were weary and listless, heavily troubled, and his voice was monotonous. Under his apathetic gaze he seemed to be looking at her lazily or sadly, as if he were sad for the weariness that now oppressed him. “Back to Corinth, Monday that was, and then on to Mayfair.... Broke an axle and got stuck in a mud hole.... On to Johntown.... Over to Richelieu.... Back to Johntown.... By that time it was last night.” He seemed to be looking at her with some extra vision that shone from under the gaze of his shifting eyes. “Already been all up in around Payne Lick and over beyond the Ridge. Over into the far side of the river. Had no sleep for a week till last night. Slept last night like a log.” Theodosia sat on the chair of the blue cushions and the parlor was arranged as Conway had left it, as he had settled it to the afternoon light. Albert seemed suffused in sadness now, and the tale of his wanderings in behalf of the farmers would scarcely hold together longer. The end of the week had come and the end of his odyssey. The day in the town with eminent speakers from outside followed, touched sparingly. He had arrived soon after noon. He had worked all afternoon in one of the offices, seeing men. There was a greater plan for coöperative selling on foot, a tight pool. Finally he said: “You know Florence Agnew?” “Oh, yes, I know her.” “Do you like her?” “How do I know?... I don’t have to like her, do I?” “What you think about her looks?” “Oh, she’s a beauty, I guess. Yes, I’m sure of it. She’s a real beauty.” “How many times you seen Florence?” he asked. “All week. I’ve been to the reservoir when she was there and all over town. At a party one day. Eight or ten times, a dozen maybe, I’ve seen Florence, I reckon.” “I’ve seen her only once.” “Today?” “All the rest of the day after I came. She was in Kirk’s office to write for the pool men, she and Ruth and one or two more.”