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I

UGUST in Norcross can be appreciated only by those who have experienced it. There are many

families who still consider the summer exodus to the shore essential to their comfort and their self-respect, but in Norcross this is the demand of habit rather than necessity. The Stewarts had long since outgrown the conventional summer-gadding habit, preferring to break their year in the winter season by trips to California or Florida, Italy or Southern France. Even the continuous residence enforced by war conditions did not prove irksome to them; for the great white blanket Nature spread over the meadows, and the masses of hemlocks and cedars weighted with glistening snow, formed a picture with which they were never satiated.

When once the business section of the town is left behind, the broad meadows spread out like an up-to-date Elysian field, with the single difference that one may wander there without having qualified as among the blessed. Still, was not Menelaus, with all his glorious faults, granted place beside the elect because he was Helen's husband and the son-in-law of Zeus? By the

same token and with little stretch of the imagination we may understand the position of certain Norcrossians because of the beatific attributes of their better halves, or relationship to the mighty . . . Beyond the meadows are the timberlands, marking by gradual ascent the elevation which culminates in the Blue Hills, and the great silver splotch dazzling in the summer sun is East Lake, the brilliancy of which invites one to seek its sparkling glories.

II

The location of the Stewart house, well up on what Norcrossians call "The Hill," affords a wonderful panoramic view. Here, in the loggia, in the late August afternoons, neighbors and other friends are wont to gather for tea or some cooling form of refreshment. On these occasions William Stewart as host is at his best. He is tall and handsome, so courtly and courteous that people call him "a gentleman of the old school." His quiet demeanor gives one the false impression that he is impositive. In reality this does not indicate a lack of energy, but rather that necessity has taken no hand in his making. Mrs. Stewart and Lola naturally relieve him of all cares of home, and he has formed the habit of letting James Norton establish his business policies. This leaves him leisure to gratify his love for the beautiful in arts and letters, accumulating the jewels which others drop in his lap, without the incentive of adding even a thread on which to string them.

On this particular afternoon Mr. Stewart is discuss

ing Botticelli and Florentine art with a congenial soul, while Lola's mother explains the intricacies of a new crochet stitch to an ambitious caller. Lola has presided at the tea table, but as her duties for the time being are fulfilled she listens patiently to the running fire of small talk, in which gentle art William Treadway is an adept. Treadway, James Norton's personal secretary, is tall and slight, with a blonde moustache which must cause him some concern as he is constantly striving with his fingers to weave it into new patterns. His two passions in life are power and Lola Stewart. The first seems possible of achievement, for energy and persistence will never be denied; the second is more difficult because of Richard Norton. But Treadway possesses the useful attribute of patience.

He is immaculate today in his golf flannels sitting next to Lola. On the other side is Richard Norton. It is easy to understand the underlying antagonism between the two young men, . . even on the surface it is ill-concealed. Treadway naturally sympathizes with the master on all points of difference with his son; Richard considers Treadway's subtle jealousy as responsible for much of the discord in the Norton family. When to this is added their joint admiration for Lola, the ingredients are complete for constant fermentation.

"If I stopped smoking," Treadway remarked gazing contemplatively at his half-consumed cigarette, "I shouldn't know what in the world to do with my face." "Some smokers don't know what to do with their faces even then," Richard commented.

"No intention of making any personal application, I hope," Lola inquired, holding up her own cigarette.

"Not at all," he hastened to explain. "I am so afraid Treadway will get back onto his hard-luck golf stories that I am trying to encourage him to talk about something interesting."

"Oh, I say!" Treadway protested. "Every golfer has to talk about his game afterwards. That's its chief attraction. But I do have more hard luck than anybody else. I simply can't keep the ball in the fairgreen. Why, the last time I played, when I finally got out of the long grass, the chap I was with said, 'Strangers are not allowed on this course!" "

Lola laughed, but Richard continued to make sport of him. He was impatient to have Lola to himself. "Don't you care, Treadway," he railed him; "nobody else does."

"It's not fair for people to josh me about my golf," Treadway declared feelingly, . . "I really got so little chance to play. When I figure out how much each game costs me, I am aghast at the extravagance of my club expenses."

"Figure it on the basis of strokes, Treadway, and it will make it look cheap," Richard retaliated.

"Come, boys, be reasonable," Lola interfered. "I'm tired of being amused. Tell me why this book here is having such a success."

She help up the novel of the day, which she had laid down when her callers arrived.

"I can't find any one who likes it any better than I do, yet everybody is talking about it," she added.

"Each one asks the other how he likes it, and each stalls to get the other's expression before he commits himself!" Richard laughed. "That's human nature."

"But the story is so drab . . . realistic, I'll grant, but the scenes it records so photographically and the odors it revives are all so commonplace and unpleasant Why do people want to read about such things,

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anyway?"

"Have you never noticed how much every one prefers to talk about his troubles than his blessings?" Richard explained. . . "like Treadway, telling us about his golf . . . but, seriously, isn't it true? . . people revel in conversation which is pitifully uninteresting in its personalities and become tongue-tied when a topic of general interest is broached . . . You didn't buy that book because you expected to be absorbed by it, but because you weren't willing to acknowledge again that you hadn't read it, . hadn't read it, . . come now, 'fess up!" “Yes, .. I'll plead guilty," she acknowledged frankly; "but in this case I really thought I would learn something. After an every-day over-the-teacup conversation, I'm willing to be instructed."

"That puts me out of the running," Treadway acknowledged. "I don't believe in mixing things. My theory of life is to concentrate, work while I work and play while I play. This is my play-time, and I refuse to assume the rôle of pedant."

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"You are joking, I know," Lola answered him seriously; "but I have noticed how definitely you lay down your rules for living. Don't you sometimes find it difficult to keep them consistent?"

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