"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.