He looked at her silently, with softening eyes.
"You'll be going back soon, I suppose, as usual!" said old Mr.
Sommerville with determination.
"To Colorado?" inquired Page. "No, I think—I've a notion I'll stay on this summer for some time. There is an experiment I want to try with alfalfa in Vermont."
Over his wineglass Arnold caught Sylvia's eye, and winked.
"Still reading as much as ever, I suppose." Mr. Sommerville was not to be put down. "When I last saw you, it was some fool socialistic poppycock about the iniquity of private exploitation of natural resources. How'd they ever have been exploited any other way I'd like to know! What's socialism? Organized robbery! Nothing else! 'Down with success! Down with initiative! Down with brains!' Stuff!"
"It's not socialism this time: it's Professor Merritt's theories on property," said Sylvia to the old gentleman, blandly ignoring his ignoring of her.
Page stared at her in astonishment. "Are you a clairvoyant?" he cried.
"No, no," she explained, laughing. "You took it out of your pocket up there by the brook."
"But you saw only the title. Merritt's name isn't on the cover."
"Oh, it's a pretty well-known book," said Sylvia easily. "And my father's a professor of Economics. When I was little I used to have books like that to build houses with, instead of blocks. And I've had to keep them in order and dusted ever since. I'm not saying that I know much about their insides."