There are often days when father sits in his study with closed door or
drives over the hills without desire for even the boys as companions.
This need not signify that he is either ill or worried,--it is simply the
need of separateness. The same thing applies to Evan when he sometimes
slips out through the garden at night, without word or sign, and is only
traceable by the beacon his cigar point makes, as he moves among the
trees, until this also vanishes, while my attic corner and the seat at
the end of the wild walk offer me similar relief.
At least the attic did until Martin Cortright, at my own invitation,
established a rival lair at the opposite end. I did not think that it
would matter, the presence of this quiet man barricaded by his books and
papers, but it does, because the charm of isolation is destroyed. I would
not have done otherwise, however; I have all outdoors, and he will have
returned to New York to find winter quarters, and arrange for the
publication of the first volume of his history when autumn and shut-in
time draws near.
Mrs. Latham sailed last week, and Sylvia is now in New York visiting her
father at his hotel and arranging her future plans. To-morrow she
returns, and together with Lavinia Dorman goes to the Alton cottage
until late August or early September, when her wedding is expected to
take place.
At the last moment Mrs. Latham changed her plan of leaving the Bluff
cottage in the charge of servants, had all her personal belongings moved
away, and offered the place for sale.
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