eupon annoyance again beset him; for it was very little to his credit
to have mismanaged his dealings with her and alienated her sympathies
thus. With her, it was very evident, he had not been at all a success.
And it pricked his young vanity very shrewdly not to be a success.

From these unsatisfactory reflections William Jennifer's voice, prefaced
by a warning cough, recalled him.

"Making any long stay in these parts, sir?" he enquired.

And when Tom explained that a few hours from now would witness the
termination of his visit, and that, in all probability, many years of
absence from England lay ahead--

"Indeed, indeed, to be sure. Who'd have thought it for a young gentleman
of the quality-like yourself! But, there, some are born under the
traveller's star, sir--created with a roving spirit. And the Lord help
'em, I say, for they're so made as to be powerless to help themselves
seemingly. Rove they must and will, if they are to taste any
contentment--an itch in their feet from the cradle nought but foreign
lands'll serve to pacify. The sight of the ocean now, seems fairly
tormenting to 'em till they can satisfy themselves of what's on the far
side of it."

But, here, the boat being unduly drawn aside by the suck of some local
current, Jennifer was constrained to apply his mind to navigation. He
dipped the long sweeps, and with a steady powerful pull straightened the
course to midstream. Then raising the glistening blades, off which the
water dripped white and pattering, he leaned forward again, resting
elbows and chest on the butt-end of the oars, and once more addressed
himself to polite conversation.

"Not as I've been greatly troubled that way myself. Had my chance of
going to sea and welcome many's the time when I was a youngster. But
always a one for the land, I was. Never had any special fancy for salt
water, though I do make my living of it now, as you may say, in a sense."

During this biographical excursion Tom Verity's attention wandered. His
eyes dwelt on Damaris. She had altered her position turning half round as
she scanned the strip of sandy warren with its row of sentinel Scotch
firs bordering the river. Seen thus, three-quarter face, Tom realized
suddenly not only how really beautiful she was--or rather could at
moments be--but how strangely she resembled Sir Charles her father. There
was likeness not of features alone; but, for all her youthful freshness,
a reflection of his strength, his in