"Oh, it doesn't matter much what--the instinct, the resultant satisfaction are the same. As a child, it's stamps, or buttons, or corks, later on--As a matter of fact, it's lace that my mother collects. She specializes in Venetian lace--the older the better, of course. The connection with coal-mines is obvious. But after all, her own fortune, coming mostly from the Sommerville side, is derived from oil. The difference is great!" "Do you live with her?" asked Sylvia. "My washing is said to be done in New York," he said seriously. "I believe that settles the question of residence for a man." "Oh, how quaint!" said Sylvia, laughing. Then with her trained instinct for contriving a creditable exit before being driven to an enforced one by flagging of masculine interest, she rose and looked at her watch. "Oh, don't go!" he implored her. "It's so beautiful here--we never were so--who knows when we'll ever again be in so ..." Sylvia divined with one of her cymbal-claps that he had meant, perhaps, that very afternoon to--She felt a dissonant clashing of triumph and misgiving. She thought she decided quite coolly, quite dryly, that pursuit always lent luster to the object pursued; but in reality she did not at all recognize the instinct which bade her say, turning her watch around on her wrist: "It's quite late. I don't think I'd better stay longer. Aunt Victoria likes dinner promptly." She turned to go. He took his small defeat with his usual imperturbable good nature, in which Sylvia not infrequently thought she detected a flavor of the unconscious self-assurance of the very rich and much-courted man. He scrambled to his feet now promptly, and fell into step with her quick-treading advance. "You're right, of course. There's no need to be grasping. There's tomorrow--and the day after--and the day after that--and if it rains we can wear rubbers and carry umbrellas." "Oh, I don't carry an umbrella for a walk in the rain," she told him. "It's one of our queer Marshall ways. We only own one umbrella for the whole family at home, and that's to lend. I wear a rubber coat and put on a sou'wester and _let_ it rain." "You would!" he said in an unconscious imitation of Arnold's accent. She laughed up at him. "Shall I confess why I do? Because my hair is naturally curly." "Confession has to be prompter than that to save souls," he answered. "I knew it was, five weeks ago, when you splashed the water up on it so recklessly there by the brook." She was astonished by this revelation of depths behind that well-remembered clear gaze of admiration, and dismayed by such unnatural accuracy of observation. "How cynical of you to make such a mental comment!" He apologized. "It was automatic--unconscious. I've had a good deal of opportunity to observe young ladies." And then, as though aware that the ice was thin over an unpleasant subject, he shifted the talk. "Upon my word, I wonder how Molly and Morrison _will_ manage?"