A warning bell brought Rod out of his absorption. He dressed and joined the others in the dining room.
It was a leisurely meal, unobtrusively ceremonial, after the conventional fashion of those who have gained the privilege of partaking of food as a pleasure, and not as a mere necessity. There was nothing lacking. To dine at Hawk's Nest was the equivalent of dining in the home of any cultivated person in New York, Paris, London,—black broadcloth and planished shirt front, corsage that revealed gleaming shoulders; snowy linen, polished silver, cut flowers; conversation as an art; good food, wine, perfect service. A black-coated man hovered discreetly behind the chairs, silently anticipating every want.
Rod's eyes swept the table and came to rest on his grandfather. A lean old patriarch with a thatch of hair white as the table cover, a mustache waxed to spiky points, a thin curved nose between deep-set, faded blue eyes. He was past eighty. He could still relish a glass of port, find pleasure in sitting beside a pretty woman,—upon whom he would bestow a blend of compliment and reminiscence. For now the old man lived almost wholly in the past. When he walked slowly about the grounds, leaning on his stick, he never spoke of what was to be, only of what had been. Rod looked at him and wondered if he would live as long and see so many changes. He was sitting beside Mrs. Wall, a plump well-groomed woman of forty-five. Above the murmur about the table Rod could hear him telling her of the gold rush to the Cariboo in '58. He had a crisp incisive manner of speech. He had been the first Norquay to attend McGill. He was an educated man, almost a scholarly one, in spite of an active life. He had builded well and widely on the fur-trading foundation.
"He was the last of the constructive period," Rod mused. "The governor has merely stood pat. Grove will likely go backward. We're a rum lot."
He had to give over these inturning reflections and be polite. He was seated between Isabel Wall and a Miss Sherburne, a darkly handsome creature whose fascinations were too precious to waste on a mere youth. Miss Sherburne's profile slanted eagerly to the left, toward Phil. But Isabel had no such reservations. Rod was nearest her own age. He was fair game. He proceeded casually to divulge to Isabel such information as she sought about running the rapids in a canoe, about Mary Thorn. She appeared to have a considerable curiosity about Mary. Presently Rod began to wish her deaf and dumb. Outwardly he remained patiently courteous. It was a relief when coffee and cigarettes ended the meal.
It took him some time to escape from Isabel. Normally he would not have minded her chatter nor her appropriation of himself. But just now his mind held tenaciously to something which had been nagging him ever since that interview in the library. When he saw Phil give over a palpable attempt to segregate Laska and saunter off toward the float landing, he excused himself and followed.
They walked down the slope together, out on the slip, seated themselves on a bench.
"Give me a cigarette," Rod demanded abruptly, as his first utterance.
Phil handed over his case. Rod lit one.
"Getting real devilish," Phil bantered.