"Oh, we generally stick around," Rod said casually. "But once our schooling is completed, we are at liberty to do what we please. There's usually plenty of opportunity in connection with the family affairs. We own a lot of timber and land along the coast. But when a younger son wants to set up his own vine and fig tree he has to do it elsewhere."
"I see," Laska looked thoughtful. "It's something like the old English law of entail."
"Yes, except that it isn't a law. Merely a custom. You might call it a family tradition. Any generation could depart from it, if they wanted to."
They stood for a minute looking at the dull red of the tile roof showing through the trees.
"Shall we walk around a bit?" Rod asked. "Or shall we go and have a game of tennis before dinner?"
"Let's walk. I hate tennis when it's hot," she said frankly.
They closed the iron gate behind them and lounged along under the trees.
"What became of the Hermes?" Laska asked suddenly.
"Went to the boneyard long ago," Rod replied. "Next time you're up in the library look in that big glass case by the east wall. You'll see old Roderick's charts and navigating instruments, sextant, chronometers, so on. The binnacle and compass is on the Haida—some of the old metal fittings, too. The old Hermes was all oak, brass, copper and bronze. Her figurehead stands in a corner of the hall. You noticed it?"
"The wooden figure of a battered Neptune? I didn't know what it was," Laska confessed.