As the big car whirled up the hill, Becky, looking out upon the familiar landscape, saw it with new eyes. There was a light upon it which had never been for her on sea or land. She had not believed that in all the world there could be such singing, blossoming radiance. They drove through the old mill town and the stream was bright under the willows. They stopped on the bridge for a moment to view the shining bend. "There are old chimneys under the vines," Becky said; "doesn't it seem dreadful to think of all those dead houses----" George gave a quick turn. "Why think of them? You were not made to think of dead houses, you were made to live." On and on they went, up the hills and down into the valleys, between rail fences which were a riot of honeysuckle, and with the roads in places rough under their wheels, with the fields gold with stubble, the sky a faint blue, with that thick look on the horizon. George talked a great deal about himself. Perhaps if he had listened instead to Becky he might have learned things which would have surprised him. But he really had very interesting things to tell, and Becky was content to sit in silence and watch his hands on the wheel. They were small hands, and for some tastes a bit too plump and well-kept, but Becky found no fault with them. She felt that she could sit there forever, and watch his hands and listen to his clear quick voice. At last George glanced at the little clock which hung in front of him. "Look here," he said, "I told Kemp to have tea for us at a place which I found once when I walked in the woods. A sort of summer house which looks towards Monticello. Do you know it?" "Yes. Pavilion Hill. It's on Randy Paine's plantation--King's Crest." "Then you've been there?" "A thousand times with Randy." "I thought it was Waterman's. We shan't be jailed as trespassers, shall we?" "No. But how could you tell your man to have tea for us when you didn't know that I'd be--willing?" "But I did--know----" A little silence, then "How?" "Because when I put my mind on a thing I usually get my way." She sat very still. He bent down to her. "You're not angry?" "No." Her cheeks were flaming. She was thrilled by his masterfulness. No man had ever spoken to her like that. She was, indeed, having her first experience of ardent, impassioned pursuit. So might young Juliet have given ear to Romeo. And if Romeo had been a Georgie-Porgie, then alas, poor Juliet! The Pavilion had been built a hundred and fifty years before of cedar logs. There had been a time when Thomas Jefferson had walked over to drink not tea, but something stronger with dead and gone Paines. Its four sides were open, but the vines formed a curtain which gave within a soft gloom. They approached it from the east side, getting out of their car and climbing the hill from the roadside. They found Kemp with everything ready. The kettle was boiling, and the tea measured into the Canton teapot which stood in its basket----