which
had seemed to mean (according to his own idea of it) that he had no
local views of anything, that he was fond of the fine arts and good
guns, that he had a taste for ablutions and fresh air, for laced shoes
and shooting-jackets, and that he never (it had not happened since his
early youth, at least) lost control of himself through drink. All this
went perfectly with his apparent frankness. It also went perfectly with
his real reserves.

On the occasions when he had said his few words to Margaret, he had
given her no chance to reply; he had made his remarks as he took up a
book. Lanse was sure that he read a great deal, that he was very fond
of reading; in reality he read almost nothing, he only turned to reading
as a last resort; he was barbarically ignorant regarding the authors of
his day, he liked best personal memoirs and letters of the last century;
when these failed him, he reread Fielding--fortunately Fielding was
inexhaustible.

He was in the habit of saying this. But one evening even Fielding
palled.

It was when they had been for nearly two months in the house on the
river. He had been out during most of the afternoon in his canoe; his
two attendants had now established him upon his sofa, placed everything
which they thought he might want within his reach, had adjusted his
reading lamp (he had announced that he was going to read), and had then
left him. They were to return at ten o'clock and help him to bed; for
Lanse was obliged to keep early hours, the night was the dangerous time,
and one of the men always slept on a cot bed in the room with him, so as
to be within call.

Margaret was sitting near the larger table, where there was a second
lamp; she was sewing. Having thrown down his volume, with the sudden
realization (it came to him occasionally) that he knew every word of it
before beginning, Lanse sat among his cushions, watching her hand come
and go.

"You are always sewing on such long things!" he said. "What is the use
of your doing that sort of work nowadays, when there are
sewing-machines?"

"That's like the American who asked, in Venice, what was the use of
people's sketching there nowadays, when there were photographs?"

"Oh, your seam is a work of art, is it?" said Lanse. He was silent for a
moment. Then he took up an old grievance. "Evert is abominably selfish
not to come over here oftener. He might just as well come over and stay;
do you know any earthly reason why he shouldn't