The mill on the river below swallowed up the blocks and spewed
them out in bound bundles of roof covering. Lawanne kept close to his
cabin, deep in the throes of creation, manifesting strange vagaries of
moroseness or exhilaration which in his normal state he cynically
ascribed to the artistic temperament. Bland haunted the creeks where
the trout lurked, tramped the woods gun in hand, a dog at his heels,
oblivious to everything but his own primitive, purposeless pleasures.
"I shouldn't care to settle here for good," he once said to Hollister.
"But really, you know, it's not half bad. If money wasn't so dashed
scarce. It's positively cruel for an estate to be so tied up that a
man can't get enough to live decently on."
Bland irritated Hollister sometimes, but often amused him by his calm
assurance that everything was always well in the world of J.
Carrington Bland. Hollister could imagine him in Norfolk and gaiters
striding down an English lane, concerned only with his stable, his
kennels, the land whose rentals made up his income. There were no
problems on Bland's horizon.
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