the resplendent, the palpitating day. One of Gordon's nephews--a
shock of tow hair rising rebellious against an application of soap,
stubby, scarred hands, shoes obviously come by in their descent from more
mature extremities--who had been audibly snuffling for the past ten
minutes, burst into a lugubrious, frightened wail. Through the solemn,
appointed periods of the minister cut the sibilant, maternal promise of a
famous "whopping."

XIX

Gordon thought again of Lettice Hollidew as he was sitting for the last
evening on the porch of the dwelling that had passed out of his hands.
Twilight had poured through the valley, thickening beneath the trees, over
the stream; the mountain ranges were dark, dusty blue against a maroon
sky. He recalled the sympathy, the plea for comprehension, in Lettice's
gaze, lifted, for the first time, frankly against his own.

Hers was not the feminine type which attracted him; he preferred a more
flamboyant beauty, ready repartee, the conscious presence and employment
of the lure of sex. His taste had been fed by the paid women of Stenton,
the few, blowsy, loose females of the mountains; these and the surface
chatter of the stage, and Clare, formed his sole knowledge, experience,
surmising, of women. He recalled Lettice condescendingly; she did not stir
his pulses, appeal to his imagination. Yet she moved his pride, his
inordinate self-esteem. It had been on his account, and not Clare's, that
she had come to the funeral. The little affair with Buckley Simmons had
captured her attention and interest; he had not thought Lettice so
impressionable.

It was, he remembered, Wednesday night--there would be prayer-meeting in
the Methodist Church; the Hollidews were Methodists; women, mostly,
attended prayer meeting. If he strolled about in that vicinity he might
see Lettice at the close of the service, thank her for attending poor
Clare's funeral.

He rose and negligently made his way through the soft gloom past the
Courthouse to the Methodist Church. The double doors were open, and a
flood of hot radiance rolled out into the night, together with the
familiar tones of old Martin Seeker loudly importuning his invisible,
inscrutable Maker. There were no houses opposite the church, and, balanced
obscurely on the fence of split rails against the unrelieved night, a row
of young men smoked redly glowing cigarettes; while, on the ground below
them, shone the lanterns by the aid of which they