The spendthrift, disinherited and graceless, accepted his pittance with an easy air, only surprise he could escape so simply from the pheasant-shooting and the aunts in the close; took to the life, dropped easily out of knowledge, and tramping the backtracks in the summer haze let everything but life slip through his fingers. Blue blowing smoke of twigs from the noon fire, red blowing dust of roads where the teams go slow, sparse swinging shadow of trees no longer foreign silted the memory of a greener climate. The crazy tales, the hatters' crazy secrets, the blind-drunk sprees indifferently forgiven,
and past them all, the track to escape and nowhere suited his book, the freak who could never settle. The pale stalk of a wench at the country ball sank back forgotten in black Mary's eyes, and past the sallow circle of the plains' horizon faded the rainy elms seen through the nursery window. That harsh biblical country of the scapegoat closed its magnificence finally round his bones polished by diligent ants. The squire his brother, presuming d**h, sighed over the documents, and lifting his eyes across the inherited garden let a vague pity blur the formal roses.