He came striding down the woodland path, shouting out the Sword-song and waving his pipe; a superb, tan-faced fellow of twenty-five, clean-built, clean-shaven, clear-eyed. His heavy hob-nailed field shoes were noiseless upon the moss. The loose, gray golf suit—with coat unbuttoned—showed every line of his athlete's figure, as he kept time to the rhythm of that splendid chant. When he neared the ladies, he lifted his cap, and all the sunlight that strayed through the balsam branches seemed to fall upon his face.
Miss Rodman gazed at him admiringly. "Isn't he magnificent!" she murmured.
Olivia did not hear her. "He knows!" she kept saying to herself. "And yet he is coming!"
"Hail!" cried Allan, waving cap and pipe together. "O ye idle women!"
"But we've been reading," explained Miss Rodman.
He picked up the Journal of Folklore and flung it down again. "Worse yet!" he insisted. "You ought to be tramping. Come, let's go over to the Pines."
"Is the map finished?" asked Olivia.
"Done, and despatched to an ungrateful government. I'm going to strike work for two days, to celebrate; then we begin triangulations on the north side of the lake. Well, aren't you coming?"
He put out his hand and swung Miss Rodman to her feet. Olivia had risen without assistance and was looking around for her hat. Allan handed it to her.
"I have some letters to write," said Miss Rodman. "I believe I won't go."