“Yes, certainly—­”

“I thought so.  The way to learn a country is to ride over it, fish over it, shoot over it, sail around it, camp in it—­that’s my notion of thoroughly understanding a region.  If you’re going to improve it you’ve got to care something about it—­begin to like it—­find pleasure in it, understand it.  Isn’t that true, Mr. Hamil?”

“Yes—­in a measure—­”

“Of course it’s true,” repeated Cardross with his quick engaging laugh; “if a man doesn’t care for a thing he’s not fitted to alter or modify it.  I’ve often thought that those old French landscape men must have dearly loved the country they made so beautiful—­loved it intelligently—­for they left so much wild beauty edging the formality of their creations.  Do you happen to remember the Chasse at Versailles?  And that’s what I want here!  You don’t mind my instructing you in your own profession, do you?”

They both laughed again, apparently qualified to understand one another.

Cardross said:  “I’m glad you’re young; I’m glad you’ve come.  This is going to be the pleasantest winter of my life.  There isn’t anything I’d rather do than just this kind of thing—­if you’ll let me tag after you and talk about it.  You don’t mind, do you?”

“No, I don’t,” said Hamil sincerely.

“We’ll probably have rows,” suggested Cardross; “I may want vistas and terraces and fountains where they ought not to be.”

“Oh, no, you won’t,” replied Hamil, laughing; “you’ll understand things when I give reasons.”

“That’s what I want—­reasons.  If anybody would only give me reasons!—­but nobody does.  Listen; will you come up to the house with me and meet my family?  And then you’ll lunch with them—­I’ve a business luncheon at the club—­unfortunately—­but I’ll come back.  Meanwhile there’ll be somebody to show you about, or you can run out to the Inlet in one of the motor-boats if you like, or do anything you like that may amuse you; the main thing is for you to be amused, to find this place agreeable, to like this kind of country, to like us. Then you can do good work, Mr. Hamil.”

A grinning negro shuffled up and closed the gate as they left the grove together and started across the lawn.  Cardross, cordial in his quick, vigorous manner, strolled with his hands in his coat pockets, planting each white-shod foot firmly as he walked, frequently turning head and shoulders squarely toward his companion when speaking.

He must have been over fifty; he did not appear forty; still, on closer and more detailed inspection Hamil understood how much his alert, well-made figure had to do with the first impression of youth.  Yet his expression had nothing in it of that shadow which falls with years—­nothing to show to the world that he had once taken the world by the throat and wrung a fortune out of it—­nothing of the hard gravity or the underlying sadness of almost ruthless success, and the responsibility for it.