It was Leon who saw and felt the difference in his uncle. Born nephew, Leon had long looked upon his Uncle Felix as good companion, the more so since sharing the particular easy comradeship that had developed between Bonard and Felix during the time Bonard had studied first the law and business affairs with the older man, and then how to enjoy life, though married to a woman who regrets you.

It is not possible to say with any certainty that the pleasures Leon had learned to share with Bonard and Felix had doomed his marriage to a lack of intimacy; but it is certain that fulfillment in his marriage would have made his intimate acquaintance with Felix and Bonard’s pleasures an absurdity. It was an illustration of the fact that our lacks often point us to more pleasures than our strengths.

Shorn of Bonard’s friendship—and in such a particular way too: his sister’s husband running away with his wife’s sister, who had borne him a child—Leon was confused, and resentful, and afraid. Had Felix been himself at that time, Leon might have weathered events more sanely. But Felix was uncharacteristically thinking of himself. He did not seek to tempt and divert his nephew to their usual light debaucheries, and Leon felt little appetite for pursuing them alone, without male companionship.

He loved Sarah, of course; and more than “of course” he loved Sarah. She loved him. But he was not strong enough to upset the delicate balance of accommodation they had reached by suddenly pressing her to join him in an attempt to make their marriage a more complete one. She was happy with Rachel and Beulah Land. Nor could Leon suddenly take into his hands the management of Beulah Land. He had for too long watched others manage the place: his father, his mother, Roscoe Elk—and now Sarah. He could not assume a responsibility he had no thought of continuing. He had been taught to leave it to others; he was content to do so. If things went a little wrong now and then, how much did it matter?

He knew that Floyd had written to say he was coming back, but his return was merely speculative. He had not been really close to Floyd since the summer of 1820 when they were boys coming to young manhood and had been suddenly estranged by an almost mutual experience. Without Bonard, more than not without Felix, Leon was lonely. Young still, but old enough to know that being young is in itself no guarantee of joy, he was lonely. He remembered days when burdens were lighter. He remembered Floyd and the pleasant, natural things they had done that summer of loafing, swimming and fishing in the creek, not caring if they were missed, and having the contented feeling that it would all go on just that way forever.