"Yes--like a mower," she added, remembering some men working in a field that had fled past them as they came out in the automobile. She remembered she had fancied the men burned brown as golfers, and she had some half-formed notion of a sentence she might turn at the expense of a certain literary school that viewed life thus upside down. She might have gone on then and talked it over with Marriott, but her brain was too tired; she could moralize just then no further than to say: "You don’t deserve to be burned as a mower--your work isn’t as hard." "No," said Marriott, "it isn’t work at all--it’s exercise; it’s a substitute for the work I should be doing." A look of disgust came to his face. She did not wish then to talk seriously; she was trying to forget problems, and she and Marriott were always discussing problems. "It’s absurd," Marriott was saying. "I do this to get the exercise I ought to get by working, by producing something--the exercise is the end, not an incident of the means. You don’t see any of these farmers around here playing golf. They’re too tired--" "Gordon," said Elizabeth, "I’m going away." "Where to?" he asked, looking up suddenly. "To Europe," she said. "Europe! Why, when? You must have decided hurriedly." "Yes, the other night after I came home from Mr. Parrish’s--we decided rather quickly--or papa decided for us." "Well!" Marriott exclaimed again. "That’s fine!" He looked away toward the first tee, where his caddie was waiting for him. He beckoned, and the boy came with his bag. "Tell Mr. Phillips I’ll not play any more--I’ll see him later." The caddie took up the bag and went lazily away, stopping to take several practice swings with one of Marriott’s drivers. The boy was always swinging this club in the hope that Marriott would give it to him. Marriott placed his hands on the rail, sprang over it, and drew up a chair. "Well, this is sudden," he said, "but it’s fine for you." He took out a cigarette. "How did it happen?" "Do you want the real reason?" she asked. "Of course; I’ve a passion for the real." "I’m going in order to get away." Marriott was sheltering in his palms a match for his cigarette. He looked up suddenly, the cigarette still between his lips. "Away from what?" "Oh, from--everything!" She waved her hands despairingly. Marriott did not understand. "That’s it," she said, looking him in the eyes. He saw that she was very serious. He lighted his cigarette, and flung away the match that was just beginning to burn his fingers. "I’m going to run away; I’m going to forget for a whole summer. I’m going to have a good time. When I come back in the fall I’m going to the Charity Bureau and do some work, but until then--" "Who’s going with you?" asked Marriott. He had thought of other things to say, but decided against them. "Mama." "And your father?" "Oh, he can’t go. He and Dick will stay at home." "Then you won’t shut up the house?"