Parke paid it, gave Verne a feeble lecture, and returned to the mill. After the death of the old man’s wife, he seldom ventured from the office, and took even less interest than usual in his son.

At forty-six Verne Shipman felt, without actually feeling it, that his life was over; that, in fact, it had never begun. Robbed of the chance to prove himself, cheated of all the adventure and force that had once sung in his blood, he could do no more than uphold the family name. And that was a poor job at best.

He picked up the Irish linen napkin, swabbed his lips; then, yawning, went upstairs and put on a sports shirt and a pair of light denim trousers.

Immediately upon leaving the house, he began to perspire.

He walked across the barbered green lawn, toward the kennels. The dogs were pacing, a few of them letting out futile cries behind the wire mesh.

Verne opened the first cage. A fine setter sprang out eagerly. “How is it, Rupert? You okay, boy? Everything okay?”

The dog pranced.

“Good. Good, fella.” He ran his hand over the smooth back of the setter, and decided that they might as well go out and practice anyway. Practice never hurt.

He was about to call Lucas, the trainer, who lived in the reconverted stable at the end of the plot, when he saw Mrs. Mennen coming toward him. He frowned, for no good reason. Mrs. Mennen was an excellent housekeeper, and she cooked marvelously well, but somehow he felt that she begrudged him his position. She was continually comparing him with his father—and what did she expect, for God’s sake? What was he supposed to do?

“There’s someone to see you,” the old woman said crisply. “He says he isn’t a salesman and he’s staying with Mrs. Pearl Lambert.”

“What does he want?”

“I don’t know. He won’t tell me.”

Shipman deepened his frown. “When they say they’re not salesmen, you can be pretty sure that’s what they are.”

“I’m only repeating what he said.”

“I know that. Mrs. Mennen”—he could never manage to call her Edna, as Parke had done—“I’m trying to get the dogs ready for some practice here, for the tournament. I’m very busy.”

The woman’s lips curled upward, almost imperceptibly.

“They’ve got to be made ready if we’re going to win this thing, you know that.”

“Do you want me to send him away?”

“Well . . . who is he, anyway? You ever seen him before?”

“No. A young fellow. He’s staying at the Union.”

In other words, Verne thought, since he’s staying with your friend Mrs. Lambert you’d like me to see him.

“All right, all right. Send him out here. But tell him I can’t give him much time; there’s a lot to do.”