Gurdy ran into the water and furiously swam. Unless Lady Ilden was making amiable phrases Margot had lied to her about the family at Fayettesville. It was natural that she should tell Mark how she’d enjoyed the farm. That was prudent kindness, no worse than his own gratitudes when Mark gave him sapphire scarf-pins and fresh silver cigarette cases that he didn’t need or want. But Margot shouldn’t lie to Lady Ilden. Gurdy avoided the next week-end and went to Fayettesville where his family worried because Mark was losing money through the actors’ strike. “And he’ll need all he can lay hands on with Margot to look after,” said Mrs. Bernamer, rocking her weight in a chair on the veranda, “It ain’t sensible for him to--to bow down and worship that child like he does. Oh, she’s pretty enough!” “Get out,” Bernamer commented, “He’d be foolish about her if she’d got to wear spectacles and was bowlegged. Gimme a cigarette, Gurd. How near’s the Walling finished?” “Two thirds, Dad.--Grandfather, you’ll have to come up and sit in a box the opening night.” The beautiful old man blinked and drawled, “I wouldn’t go up to N’York to see Daniel Bandmann play ‘Hamlet’--if he was alive. How’s old Mr. Carlson get on?” Gurdy often found the contrast between his grandfather and Carlson diverting. The dying manager, a cynic, wanted Heaven in all the decorations of the Apocalypse. The old peasant lazily insisted that death would end him. He got some hidden pleasure from the thought of utter passage. Gurdy found this content stupendous. The farmer had never been two hundred miles from his dull acreage and yet was ready to be done with his known universe while Carlson wanted eternity. He cackled when the striking actors made peace and ordered wreaths sent to the more stubborn managers. His bitter tongue rattled.