"Futures. I don't know how much he is in, but I judge that it is
considerable. You can always tell by his looks when things are going
his way, and I have never seen him in higher feather."

Mostyn suppressed a sullen groan. "That is what _they_ are doing while
I am lying around here like this," he reflected. "Mitchell thinks I am
a financial wonder, does he? Well, he doesn't know me; Irene doesn't
know me. Dolly doesn't dream--my God, I don't know _myself!_ A few
minutes ago I was sure that I would give up the world for her, and yet
already I am a different man--changed--full of hell itself. I am a
slave to my imagination. I don't know what I want."

Then he thought of the unopened letter in his pocket. Light as it was,
he could all but feel its weight against his side. They were now at
the gate of Saunders's house. No one was in sight. The tall white
pillars of the Colonial porch gleamed like shafts of snow in the
sunlight. It was a spacious building in fine condition; even the grass
of the lawn and beds of flowers were well cared for.

"You'd better decide to stop," Saunders said, cordially. "I will soon
get over my talk with the overseer, and then I'll take you around and
show you some of the richest land in the South--black as your hat in
some places. I wouldn't give this piece of property for all you and
Delbridge and Mitchell ever can pile up. Both my grandfather and
father died in the room up-stairs on the left of the hall. It seems
sacred to me."

Mostyn nodded absently. "No, thanks, I'll walk home," he said, getting
out of the buggy. He was turning away, but paused and looked back.