However it may have been, she had summoned him. And now he was on his way to get his answer, the best whip, the most eagerly discussed, and one of the wealthiest unmarried men in America.
Lingering irresolutely, considering with idle eyes the shadows lengthening across the sun-shot moorland, the sound of Siward's even voice aroused her from a meditation bordering on lassitude.
She answered vaguely. He spoke again; all the agreeable, gentle, humourous charm dominant once more--releasing her from the growing tension of her own thoughts, absolving her from the duty of immediate decision.
"I feel curiously lazy," she said; "perhaps from our long drive." She seated herself on the turf. "Talk to me, Mr. Siward--in that lazy way of yours."
What he had to say proved inconsequent enough, an irrelevant suggestion concerning the training of field-dogs for close covert work and the reasons for not breaking such dogs on quail. Then the question of cross-breeding came up, and he gave his opinion on the qualities of "droppers." To which she replied, sleepily; and the conversation veered again toward the mystery of heredity, and the hopelessness of escape from its laws as illustrated now by the Sagamore pup, galloping nose in the wind, having scented afar the traces of the forbidden rabbit.
"His ancestors turned 'round and 'round to flatten the long reeds and grasses in their lairs before lying down," observed Siward. "He does it, too, where there is nothing to flatten out. Did you ever notice how many times a dog turns around before lying down? And there goes the carefully schooled Sagamore, chasing rabbits! Why? Because his wild ancestors chased rabbits. … Heredity? It's a steady, unseen, pulling, dragging force. Like lightning, too, it shatters, sometimes, where there is resistance."
"Do you mean, Mr. Siward, that heredity is an excuse for moral weakness?"
"I don't know. Those inheriting nothing of evil say it is no excuse."
"It is no excuse."
"You speak with authority," he said.
"With more than you are aware of," she murmured, not meaning to say it.
She stood up impulsively, her fresh face turned to the distant house, her rounded young figure poised in relief against the sky.
"Inherited or not, idleness, procrastination, are my besetting sins. Can't you suggest the remedy, Mr. Siward?"
"But they are only the thieves of Time; and we kill the poor old gentleman."
"Leagued assassins," she repeated pensively.
Her gown had caught on the cliff briers; he knelt to release it, she looking down, noting an ugly tear in the fabric.
"Payment for my iniquities--the first instalment," she said, still looking down over his shoulder and watching his efforts to release her. "Thank you, Mr. Siward. I think we ought to start, don't you?"