ic philosophies amid
the rattle of dominoes--and afar off in the street a voice was crying
"_Haricots verts_!" My new friend's talk had the pathos of spiritual
exile, for, as French in blood as a man could be, born in Bordeaux of
Provencal parentage, he had lived most of his life in America. The
decoration of a rich man's house in the neighbourhood had brought him
thus into my solitude, and, that work completed, he would return to his
home in New York.

Meanwhile the morning was going by as we talked, and, putting up his
sketch-box, he accepted my invitation to join me at lunch.

Such was the manner of my meeting, in the guise of a trespasser, with the
dear friend to whom I had brought the decisive news of the death of
Summer, as he was innocently making a salad, _in antiquam silvam_, on
that sad September evening.

CHAPTER IV

SALAD AND MOONSHINE

"Do you remember that first salad you made us, Colin?" I said, as we sat
over our coffee, and Colin was filling his little pipe. "A daring work of
art, a fantastic _tour de force_, of apples, and lettuce, and wild
strawberries, and I don't know what else."

"I believe I mixed in some May-apples, too. It was a great stunt ...
well, no more May-apples and strawberries this year," he finished, with a
sigh, and we both sat silently smoking, thinking over the good Summer
that was gone.

After our first meeting, Colin had dropped in to see me again from time
to time, and when his work at the great house was finished, I had asked
him to come and share my solitude. A veritable child of Nature himself,
he fitted into my quiet days as silently as a squirrel. So much of his
life had been passed out-of-doors with trees and skies, long dream-like
days all alone sketching in solitary places, that he seemed as much a
part of the woods as though he were a faun, and the lore of the elements,
and all natural things--bugs and birds, all wildwood creatures--had
passed into him with unconscious absorption. A sort of boyish
unconsciousness, indeed, was the keynote and charm of his nature. A less
sophisticated creature never followed the mystic calling of art.
Fortunately for me, he was not one of those painters who understand and
expound their own work. On the contrary, he was a perfect child about it,
and painted for no more mysterious reason than that his eye delighted in
beautiful natural effects, and that he loved to play with paint and
brushes. Though he was undoubtedly sensi