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Suddenly she wheeled, as though he had spoken, and her eyes fell on the glass. "What is the matter?" he demanded, as she turned on her heel and moved away. "I'm a trifle nervous, I believe. If you want to see the big trout breaking on Hurryon, you'd better come with me." She was walking swiftly down the drive to the south of the house. He overtook her and fell into slower step beside her.
"This is the Sachem's Gate," she said; "here is the key; unlock it, please." Inside they crossed a stream dashing between tanks set with fern and tall silver birches. "Hurryon Brook," she said. "Isn't it a beauty? It pours into the Gray Water a little farther ahead. We must hasten, or it will be too dark to see the trout." Twice again they crossed the rushing brook on log bridges.
At the Hurryon Gate Duane found Rosalie trying to unlock it, a dainty, smiling Rosalie, fresh as a blossom, and absurdly like a schoolgirl with her low-cut collar, snowy neck, and the thick braid of hair. Under her arm she carried her bathing-dress. "I'm going for a swim; I nearly perished with the heat last night.... Did you sleep well, Duane?" "Rather well."
She looked up in surprise: "Duane hasn't done any work since he's been here, has he?" "Didn't you know? What do you suppose he's about every morning?" "He's about Rosalie," she said coolly. "I've never seen any colour box or easel in their outfit." "Oh, he keeps his traps at Hurryon Lodge. He's made a lot of sketches. I saw several at the Lodge.
Here, stand here beside me, Duane, and you can see it from your window. That's the Gilded Dome that big peak. It's in our park. There are a few elk on it, not many, because they'd starve out the deer. As it is, we have to cut browse in winter. For Heaven's sake, hurry, man! Get into your bath and out again, or we'll miss the trout jumping along Gray Water and Hurryon Brook."
The lawns and terraces of Roya-Neh were swarming with eager, laughing young people; white skirts fluttered everywhere in the sun; tennis-courts and lake echoed with the gay tumult, motors tooted, smart horses and showy traps were constantly drawing up or driving off; an army of men from West Gate Village were busy stringing lanterns all over the grounds, pitching pavilions in the glade beyond Hurryon Gate, and decorating everything with ribbons, until Duane suggested to Scott that they tie silk bows on the wild squirrels, as everything ought to be as Louis XVI as possible.
"Oh, I don't mind," he nodded, laughing, and she gave him a shy glance of adieu and turned to receive another guest. In his extemporized studio at Hurryon Lodge he found that old Miller had already provided him with a washstand and accessories, a new tin tub and a very comfortable iron bed.
And he's doing a big canvas of Rosalie down there, too." "At Hurryon Lodge?" "Yes. Miller lets them have the garret for a studio." "I didn't know that," she said slowly. "Didn't you? People are rather catty about it." "Catty?"
"That's what I thought," she said shyly, "and Scott and I have the plans for a studio all ready; and the men are to begin Monday, and Miller is to take the new gate cottage. Oh, the plans are really very wonderful!" she added hastily, as Duane looked grateful but dubious. "Rollins and Calvert drew them. I wrote to Billy Calvert and sent him the original plans for Hurryon Lodge.
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