"I
really don't know," she added. And, in a lower voice: "I wish either
Duane or Rosalie would go. They certainly are behaving unwisely."

Geraldine turned and looked through the woods toward the Gray Water.

"It's their affair," she said curtly. "I've got to make Delancy fish or
we won't have enough trout for luncheon. Scott!" calling to her brother,
"your horrid trout won't rise this morning. For goodness' sake, try to
catch something beside lizards and water-beetles!"

For a moment she stood looking around her, as though perplexed and
preoccupied. There was sunlight on the glade and on the ripples, but the
daylight seemed to have become duller to her.

She walked up-stream for a little distance before she noticed Grandcourt
plodding faithfully at her heels.

"Oh!" she said impatiently, "I thought you were fishing. You must catch
something, you know, or we'll all go hungry."

"Nothing bites on these bally flies," he explained.

"Nothing bites because your flies are usually caught in a tree-top.
Trout are not arboreal. I'm ashamed of you, Delancy. If you can't keep
your line free in the woods"--she hesitated, then reddening a little
under her tan--"you had better go and get a canoe and find Duane
Mallett and help him catch--something worth while."

"Don't you want me to stay with you?" asked the big, awkward fellow
appealingly. "There's no fun in being with Rosalie and Duane."

"No, I don't. Look! Your flies are in that bush! Untangle them and go to
the Gray Water."

"Won't you come, too, Miss Seagrave?"

"No; I'm going back to the house.... And don't you dare return without a
decent brace of trout."

"All right," he said resignedly. The midges bothered him; he mopped his
red face, tugged at the line, but the flies were fast in a hazel bush.

"Damn this sort of thing," he muttered, looking piteously after
Geraldine. She was already far away among the trees, skirts wrapped
close to avoid briers, big straw hat dangling in one hand.

As she walked toward the Sachem's Gate she was swinging her hat and
singing, apparently as unconcernedly as though care rested lightly upon
her young shoulders.

Out on the high-road a number of her guests whizzed past in one of
Scott's motors; there came a swift hail, a gust of wind-blown laughter,
and the car was gone in a whirl of dust. She stood in the road watching
it recede, then walked forward again toward the house.

Her accustomed elasticity appeared to have left