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