The Brimming Cup

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.