strangeness, as if the girl in rose-color was not the girl of whom he had
dreamed through all the days since he had known that he was not to marry
Eve.

The winter had been a busy one for him, but satisfying in the sense that
he was at last in his rightful place. He had come into his own. He had no
more doubts that his work was wisely chosen. But his life was as yet
unfinished. To complete it, he had felt that he must round out his days
with the woman he loved.

But now that he was here, he saw her fitted to her new surroundings as a
jewel fitted to a golden setting. And she liked lovely things, she liked
excitement, and the nearness of the great metropolis. There were men who
had wanted to marry her. Marie-Louise had told him that in a gay little
letter which she had sent from the South.

As he reviewed it now disconsolately, he reminded himself that he had
never had any real reason to know that Anne cared for him. There had been
a flash of the eye, a few grave words, a break in her voice, his answered
letters; but a woman might dole out these small favors to a friend.

Thus from caviar to soup, and from soup to roast, he contradicted
Marie-Louise's conception of his state of mind. Fear and doubt,
discouragement, a touch of despair, these carried him as far as the
salad.

And then he heard Austin's voice speaking. "So you are really contented
at Crossroads, Brooks?"

"Yes. I wish you would come down and let me show you some of the things I
am doing. A bit primitive, perhaps, in the light of your larger
experience. But none the less effective, and interesting."

Austin shrugged. "I can't imagine anything but martyrdom in such a
life--for me. What do you do with yourself when you are not working--with
no theaters--opera--restaurants--excitements?"

"We get along rather well without them--except for an occasional trip to
town."

"But you need such things," dogmatically; "a man can't live out of the
world and not--degenerate."

"He may live in it, and degenerate." Anne was speaking. Her cheeks were
as pink as her gown. She leaned a little forward. "You don't know all
that they have at Crossroads, and Dr. Brooks is too polite to tell you
how poor New York seems to those of us who--know."

"Poor?" Richard had turned to her, his face illumined.

"Isn't it? Think of the things you have that New York doesn't know of. A
singing river--this river doesn't sing, or if it does nobody would have
time to listen. And C