accurate and precise flood of information.  Sylvia began to take a playful interest in trying to find a weak place in his armor, to ask a question he could not answer.  But he knew all the answers.  He knew the relative weight per cubic foot of oak and pine and maple; he knew the railroad rates per ton on carload lots; he knew why it is cheaper in the long run to set transplants in sod-land instead of seeding it; he knew what per cent to write off for damage done by the pine weevil, he reveled in complicated statistics as to the actual cost per thousand for chopping, skidding, drawing, sawing logs.  He laughed at Sylvia’s attempts to best him, and in return beat about her ears with statistics for timber cruising, explained the variations of the Vermont and the scribner’s decimal log rule, and recited log-scaling tables as fluently as the multiplication table.  They were in the midst of this lively give-and-take, listened to with a mild amusement on Arnold’s part, when they emerged on a look-out ledge of gray slate, and were struck into silence by the grave loveliness of the immense prospect below them.

“—­and of course,” murmured Page finally, on another note, “of course it’s rather a satisfaction to feel that you are making waste land of use to the world, and helping to protect the living waters of all that—­” He waved his hand over the noble expanse of sunlit valley.  “It seems”—­he drew a long breath—­“it seems something quite worth doing.”

Sylvia was moved to a disinterested admiration for him; and it was a not unworthy motive which kept her from looking up to meet his eyes on her.  She felt a petulant distaste for the calculating speculations which filled the minds of all her world about his intentions towards her.  He was really too fine for that.  At least, she owed it to her own dignity not to abuse this moment of fine, impersonal emotion to advance another step into intimacy with him.

But as she stood, looking fixedly down at the valley, she was quite aware that a sympathetic silence and a thoughtful pose might make, on the whole, an impression quite as favorable as the most successfully managed meeting of eyes.

CHAPTER XXX

ARNOLD CONTINUES TO DODGE THE RENAISSANCE

A gaunt roaming figure of ennui and restlessness, Arnold appeared at the door of the pergola and with a petulant movement tore a brilliant autumn leaf to pieces as he lingered for a moment, listening moodily to the talk within.  He refused with a grimace the chair to which Sylvia motioned him.  “Lord, no!  Hear ’em go it!” he said quite audibly and turned away to lounge back towards the house.  Sylvia had had time to notice, somewhat absently, that he looked ill, as though he had a headache.

Mrs. Marshall-Smith glanced after him with misgiving, and, under cover of a brilliantly resounding passage at arms between Morrison and Page, murmured anxiously to Sylvia, “I wish Judith would give up her nonsense and marry Arnold!”