"Destiny is the weak man's canonization of his own vices."
"Well, then I will succeed," retorted Guy. "Moreover I will succeed in my own way. It seems a pity that we should argue acrimoniously. I shall say no more. I accept the responsibility. For what you've done for me I'm very much obliged. Would you care for a hand at piquet?"
"Oh, certainly," said his father.
Guy hugged himself with another minor triumph. At least it was he who had determined when the discussion should be closed.
The next day, as Guy stood on the Shipcot platform and watched the slow train puffing away into the unadventurous country, he had a brief sentiment of regret for the failure of his father's visit and made up his mind to write to him a letter to-morrow, which would sweeten a little of the bitterness between them. The bees buzzing round the wine-dark dahlias along the platform were once again audible: and close at hand was the hum of a reaper-and-binder. But as he drove back to Wychford his father passed from his mind, and mostly Guy thought of walking with Pauline under the pale and ardent blue of this September sky that was reflected in the chicory flowers along the sparse and dusty hedgerow.
October
"MY dears, he frightened me to death," Pauline declared to her family when Mr. Hazlewood had left the Rectory. "Only I expect, you know, that really he's rather sweet."
"I don't think he approved of us very much," said Margaret.
"I didn't approve of him very much," said Monica.
"And where was Francis?" asked Mrs. Grey.