"I hardly think she misses much," he said, and added after a
moment, "Do you know I'd give twenty--no forty, fifty years of
this for a single year of the big noisy world over there. I'm
dog-tired of stagnation."

"Well, it's natural," admitted Tucker gently. "At your age I
doubtless felt the same. The young want action, and they ought to
have it, because it makes the quiet of middle age seem all the
sweeter. You've missed your duels and your flirtations and your
pomades, and you've been put into breeches and into philosophy at
the same time. Why, one might as well stick a brier pipe in the
mouth of a boy who is crying for his first gun and tell him to go
sit in the chimney-corner and be happy. When I was twenty-five I
travelled all the way to New York for the latest Parisian
waistcoat, but I can't remember that I ever strolled round the
corner to see a peach-tree in full bloom. I'm a lot happier now,
heaven knows, in my homespun coat, than I was then in that
waistcoat of satin brocade, so I sometimes catch myself wishing
that I could see again the people I knew then--the men I
quarrelled with and the women I kissed. I'd like to apologise for
the young fool of thirty years ago."

Christopher stirred restlessly, and, clasping his hands behind
his head, stared at a small white cloud drifting slowly above the
great pine.

"Well, it's the fool part I envy you, all the same," he remarked.

"You're welcome to it, my boy," answered Tucker; then he paused