a busy man, absent from home for weeks at a time, and bearing this
exile with a jovial cheerfulness which did not always characterize his
moods when he deigned to join the family circle. Occasionally the
elder Prescott experienced a twinge of conscience when he looked at
his son, ten years of age now, the possessor of a superbly healthy
body and presumably of the social aspirations of growing Americans. In
such moments of illumination the father reflected uneasily that "the
little beggar must have a beastly lonesome time of it"; then,
surveying the little beggar's choice company of pets, gazing upon the
dam he had built with his own busy hands, inspecting approvingly his
prowess in the swimming-hole and with his fish-rods, even noting, in
his conscientious appraisal of his heir's assets, the self-assertive
quality of the freckles on his nose and the sunburn on the whole of
his visage, this perfunctory American parent easily decided that
nothing need be changed for another year or two. It was impossible
even for a scrupulous conscience to make a youthful martyr of Raymond
Mortimer. Not the most rabid New England brand could compass that, and
certainly Raymond Mortimer Prescott, Sr., had no such possession. The
housekeeper, Miss Greene, a former trained nurse who had charge of the
boy in infancy, looked after his clothes and his meals.
Notwithstanding his steadfast elusiveness, she had also succeeded in
making him master of extremely elementary knowledge of letters and
figures. Beyond this he was arrogantly ignorant, even to the point of
being ignorant of his ignorance. He had his dogs, his rods and tackle,
his tool-house, unlimited fresh air, sunshine, and perfect health; in
addition he had Lily Bell.

How long he may have enjoyed the pleasure of this young person's
company unobserved by his elders is a matter of surmise; it may well
have been a long time, for family curiosity never concerned itself