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“Which Miss Dows do you mean?” asked Courtland dryly.

“Miss Sally, of course,” said the young fellow briskly. “SHE manages everything–her aunt included. She can make those niggers work when no one else can, a word or smile from her is enough. She can make terms with dealers and contractors–her own terms, too–when they won’t look at MY figures. By Jove! she even gets points out of those traveling agents and inventors, don’t you know, who come along the road with patents and samples. She got one of those lightning-rod and wire-fence men to show her how to put up an arbor for her trailing roses. Why, when I first saw YOU up on the cornice, I thought you were some other chap that she’d asked–don’t you know–that is, at first, of course!–you know what I mean–ha, by Jove!–before we were introduced, don’t you know.”

“I think I OFFERED to help Miss Dows,” said Courtland with a quickness that he at once regretted.

“So did HE, don’t you know? Miss Sally does not ASK anybody. Don’t you see? a fellow don’t like to stand by and see a young lady like her doing such work.” Vaguely aware of some infelicity in his speech, he awkwardly turned the subject: “I don’t think I shall stay here long, myself.”

“You expect to return to England?” asked Courtland.

“Oh, no! But I shall go out of the company’s service and try my own hand. There’s a good bit of land about three miles from here that’s in the market, and I think I could make something out of it. A fellow ought to settle down and be his own master,” he answered tentatively, “eh?”

“But how will Miss Dows be able to spare you?” asked Courtland, uneasily conscious that he was assuming an indifference.

“Oh, I’m not much use to her, don’t you know–at least not HERE. But I might, if I had my own land and if we were neighbors. I told you SHE runs the place, no matter who’s here, or whose money is invested.”

“I presume you are speaking now of young Miss Dows?” said Courtland dryly.

“Miss Sally–of course–always,” said Champney simply. “She runs the shop.”

“Were there not some French investors–relations of Miss Dows? Does anybody represent THEM?” asked Courtland pointedly.

Yet he was not quite prepared for the naive change in his companion’s face. “No. There was a sort of French cousin who used to be a good deal to the fore, don’t you know? But I rather fancy he didn’t come here to look after the PROPERTY,” returned Champney with a quick laugh. “I think the aunt must have written to his friends, for they ‘called him off,’ and I don’t think Miss Sally broke her heart about him. She’s not that sort of girl–eh? She could have her pick of the State if she went in for that sort of thing–eh?”

Although this was exactly what Courtland was thinking, it pleased him to answer in a distrait sort of fashion, “Certainly, I should think so,” and to relapse into an apparently business abstraction.

“I think I won’t go in,” continued Champney as they neared the house again. “I suppose you’ll have something more to say to Miss Dows. If there’s anything else you want of ME, come to the office. But SHE’LL know. And–er–er–if you’re–er–staying long in this part of the country, ride over and look me up, don’t you know? and have a smoke and a julep; I have a boy who knows how to mix them, and I’ve some old brandy sent me from the other side. Good-by.”

More awkward in his kindliness than in his simple business confidences, but apparently equally honest in both, he shook Courtland’s hand and walked away. Courtland turned towards the house. He had seen the farm and its improvements; he had found some of his own ideas practically discounted; clearly there was nothing left for him to do but to thank his hostess and take his leave. But he felt far more uneasy than when he had arrived; and there was a singular sense of incompleteness in his visit that he could not entirely account for. His conversation with Champney had complicated–he knew not why–his previous theories of Miss Dows, and although he was half conscious that this had nothing to do with the business that brought him there, he tried to think that it had. If Miss Sally was really–a–a–distracting element to contiguous man, it was certainly something to be considered in a matter of business of which she would take a managerial part. It was true that Champney had said she was “not that sort of girl,” but this was the testimony of one who was clearly under her influence. He entered the house through the open French window. The parlor was deserted. He walked through the front hall and porch; no one was there. He lingered a few moments, a slight chagrin beginning to mingle with his uneasiness. She might have been on the lookout for him. She or Sophy must have seen him returning. He would ring for Sophy, and leave his thanks and regrets for her mistress. He looked for a bell, touched it, but on being confronted with Sophy, changed his mind and asked to SEE Miss Dows. In the interval between her departure and the appearance of Miss Sally he resolved to do the very thing which he had dismissed from his thoughts but an hour before as ill-timed and doubtful. He had the photograph and letter in his pocket; he would make them his excuse for personally taking leave of her.