Mr. Welles swam out of the breakers into clear water. Suddenly he caught
the knack of the upward swing, and had the immense satisfaction of
bringing the mattock down squarely, buried to the head in the earth.
"There!" he said proudly to Mrs. Crittenden, "how's that for fine?"
He looked up at her, wiping the sweat from his forehead. He wondered for
an instant if she really looked troubled, or if he only imagined it.
There was no doubt about how Vincent looked, as though he thought Mr.
Welles, exulting over a blow with a mattock, an old imbecile in his
dotage.
Mr. Welles never cared very much whether he seemed to Vincent like an
old imbecile or not, and certainly less than nothing about it today,
intoxicated as he was with the air, the sun, and his new mastery over
the soil. He set his hands lovingly to the tool and again and again
swung it high over his head, while Vincent and Mrs. Crittenden strolled
away, still talking. . . . "Doesn't it depend on what you mean by
'beauty'?" Mrs. Crittenden was saying.