"Have you any views about
treatment of the phylloxera?"
"Odd that you should mention that. Why?"
"Only because my father has been thinking about it: we have a friend
from Avignon staying with us--all but ruined in his vineyards."
Jacks had again taken out his letter-case. He selected a folded
sheet of paper, and showed what looked like a dry blade of grass.
The wheat, he said, on certain farms in his Company's territory had
begun to suffer from a strange disease; here was an example of the
parasite-eaten growth; no one yet had recognised the disease or
discovered a cheek for it.
"Let my father have it," said Irene. "He is interested in all that
kind of thing."
"Really? Seriously?"
"Quite seriously. He would much like to see it."
"Then I will either call on him, or write to him, when I get back."
Miss Derwent had not yet spoken of her destination. She mentioned,
now, that she was going to spend a week or two with relations at a
country place in Cheshire. She must change trains at Crewe. This
gave a lighter turn to the conversation. Arnold Jacks launched into
frank gaiety, and Irene met him with spirit. Not a little remarkable
was the absence of the note of sex from their merry gossip in the
narrow seclusion of a little railway compartment. Irene was as safe
with this world-conquering young man as with her own brother; would
have been so, probably, on a desert island.
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