"Whose, then?" Judge Trent braced himself in expectation of the answer.
"The farm belongs to—to a celebrated lawyer who uses it for a summer home," replied the girl.
"Make friends with him," suggested the judge.
Sylvia's breath caught. "If—if you knew how I don't want to and how—I must!" she returned naïvely.
Her companion smiled grimly. "Well, here, now,—he's an old curmudgeon, I know him,—never mind him. Let's have a rowing lesson. Take the oars,—there, at that point. Now!" The speaker bent toward the young girl, and his dry hands closed over hers. She glanced at him half in fright, and away again as he guided her awkward movements until the boat moved slowly, but with tolerable evenness, through the water. "Now you're getting it, you see," he said at last.
Sylvia began to forget her embarrassment in interest.
"Not too deep,—only bury the oar." The speaker glanced up into the eager face so near him. Coral lips, pearly teeth, sunny curls,—loneliness, the stage, an actor husband—
"Turn it right there, steadily; see the water drip off? That's the way"—
Himself with his nose buried in a pile of papers, Martha hysterical, Dunham morose, but himself always unmoved. Laura's baby! He remembered that he had sent her a silver cup when she was born.
"Look out, a steady pull,—steady. That's enough now. You're tired. This boat is a tub. You should have a light one."