"That is rather cruel to Percival, isn't it?" said Ford.
"Oh, he too has many, many friends," said Sylvia, veering again.
"Fortunate fellow!"
At last Percival went. Ford was again the only visitor. And if he did not have long mornings in the library, he had portions not a few of afternoons in the garden. For if he came up the water-steps and found the mistress of the house sitting under the trees, with no other companion than a book, it was but natural that he should join her, and possibly make some effort to rival the printed page.
"You do not like driving?" she said, one day. They were in the parlor, and the carriage was coming round; she had invited him to accompany them, and he had declined.
"Not with a coachman, I confess."
"There is always the phaeton," she said, carelessly.
He glanced at her, but she was examining the border of her lace scarf. "On the whole, I prefer riding," he answered, as though it were a question of general preferences.
"And Katharine rides so well!" said Sylvia, looking up from her wax flowers. Sylvia made charming wax flowers, generally water-lilies, because they were "so regular."
"There are no good horses about here," observed Ford. "I have tried them all. I presume at home in America you keep a fine one?"