“You forget, Desirée,” said Mrs. Hawarden, in icy pleasantry. “Rex is not a tripe sandwich. To a rare soul like Mr. Conover’s, even a sunset,--to say nothing of a mere dog and a child--must yield to the charms of supper. Come. We’re all keeping him.” “I had an idee,” muttered Caleb, as he passed her on the way to the dining room, “that it was ’tother way round.” CHAPTER XX CALEB “OVERLOOKS A BET” The ensuing fortnight was at once the longest and the shortest fourteen days Conover had ever known. So far as his companionship with Desirée was concerned, the hours had sped with bewildering haste. But, otherwise, time had limped on leaden feet. The message of the hills was not for him. Green mountains, blue sky and bluer water. And the smell of balsam that had grown to be dully irritating to him. His senses instinctively strained for the roar of traffic, the stark hurry of men, the smell of cities. Throughout the day the universal stillness of the wilds was broken only by the occasional “tck-tck-tck” of launches. By night, even this was absent; and as Desirée said, “God seemed very near.” But the hush, the eternal calm of it all wore upon the Fighter’s nerves. As well have expected the south wind to draw whispering melodies from a barrel-organ as for the spell of the forest to lay its blesséd and blessing hand on the brain of this Man of Cities. At times he caught himself counting the days that remained, and there was an impatient eagerness in the count. Then, ever, would come the thought that each passing day brought him twenty-four hours nearer to his parting from Desirée. And eagerness would give way to a sharp, if undefined pain. Another thing wore on him. To prevent Desirée from guessing at his boredom he was forced to be always on guard. She had at first been half-afraid he might not be sufficiently alive to the beauty of it all; and had exhibited to him her adored woodland treasures with the wistful pride of a child that shows an interested stranger its most cherished toys. To drive the latent wistfulness from her eyes, Conover had soon entered effusively into the spirit of everything. And Desirée, usually so mercilessly keen to note his every clumsy effort at deception, was too happy nowadays to observe his enthusiasm’s mechanical tenor. Hence, believing she had made a convert, she redoubled her efforts in educating him up to the loveliness of the place. And, with the heroism of a Regulus, he suffered himself to be educated. At times of course he struck the wrong note. Once, for instance, at sunset they paddled through the keel-wide sandbar channel from Raquette into Eldon Lake and found themselves in an unrippled basin of black water set in a circle of forest and “clearing.” The silence hung heavy as velvet. It was the hush of a newborn, unknown world. The mystic wonder of it all, beneath the setting sun, caught Desirée by the throat and held her trembling,--speechless. Caleb, splashing time with his oar, began to sing.