Gabriel Strong received the news with an air of languid and exotic enthusiasm. His father’s farming ventures did not interest him vastly; even the excellences of artificial manure awoke no joy in him. Father and son were always colliding dismally on such topics. Gabriel found it a perpetual trial of filial respect to escape from appearing bored by his father’s hobbies. “Those heifers are to come from Heatherstoke at the end of the week,” the elder man continued. “I shall drive into Rilchester and take you with me. I want to see Murchison about that fencing. And, by-the-way, I heard from the major by the morning’s post. He sent me Mold & Company’s price-list; I have been looking it over; their prices are ten per cent. more reasonable than those of that London firm. These Americans bust our manufacturers. Be back to dinner, now.” Thirty years of tyranny over his commercial minions had developed in John Strong a certain abrupt and peremptory method of address. He often spoke to his son with something of the air he would unconsciously have adopted to his office-boy. It was unintentional, but it often irritated. “I may be late,” quoth Gabriel, looking out over wood, hill, and meadow towards the sea. “The Gussets and Colonel Delaware are dining with us at seven. Don’t forget it.” “I had, as a matter of fact.” “What a memory you have for actualities. I believe you’d let this place go to rack and ruin in six months.” “Bad farming produces artistic effects. I should as a matter of principle let my thorn hedges grow as they liked, and I should welcome red poppies into my fields of wheat.” “And grow beans for the scent, I suppose. Reserve your eccentricities for dinner-time; Ophelia Gusset will expect to be entertained.” John Strong scrutinized his son’s face for any confession of color or confusion. “I have a great admiration for Ophelia,” he suggested. “Really fine women are rare in the country—women of style and spirit. A smart girl is a relief after giggling children bred in parsonages and flouncing hoydens fit only for milk-pans.” Gabriel retorted monosyllabically. He rarely indulged in filial confidences. “Ophelia Gusset won’t be a spinster long,” resumed the pandar. “If I were a youngster, by George! I’d make a bid for the girl. Don’t fag yourself or you’ll be sleepy to-night. You must talk, you know; girls don’t like a dull dog, and the Gussets are up to date.” Gabriel moved slowly down the steps. “I shall be back by six,” he said. “Very good. Don’t go and break your neck on those damned cliffs.”