They walked on in silence. Harlan did not find it easy to continue that line of talk. His deameanor did not accord with the fair face of the morning. But the old man sauntered on under the trees, plainly contented with the world and all that was in it.
"Let's see, you haven't met Madeleine, Luke's girl, since she was little, have you?" he inquired, stealing one of his shrewd side glances at his grandson.
Harlan was occupied with his own thoughts and shook his head.
"I was thinking she'd been away at school whenever you've been down here with me. Beautiful girl, my boy. Brains, too. Polish up your thoughts. These college girls are pretty bright, you know."
"I don't think she will notice whether I've got any thoughts or not," replied the young man, sourly. "She won't pay much attention to a woodsman—not that kind of a girl."
"What kind of a girl?"
"One that's full of society notions and college airs. I know the kind. Unless a fellow has wasted about half his life in dancing and loafing around summer resorts they treat him as though he were a cross between an Eskimo and a Fiji. Life is too short to play poodle for girls of that sort."
"Well, you are certainly on the mourners' bench to-day, front row and an end seat," said the old man, disgustedly. "You'd better go up and take a nap till breakfast-time, and use sleep, soap, a razor, and common sense and smooth yourself off. I reckon I haven't got you out of those woods any too quick."
Only the earliest birds of the hostelry roost were about the big house at that hour. The new arrivals dodged scrub-women and sweepers in the office and on the stairs, and went to their rooms. The Duke, leaving his grandson at his bedroom door, suggested a bit stiffly that he would "call around about eight o'clock and open the den and lead him down to a little raw meat, unless he smoothed up his manners and his appetite in the mean time."