She had left the
inheritance of her unleashed energy, in some form, behind her.

He did not go home that late afternoon and in the early evening strolled
about the streets, once meeting Choate and passing on Weedie's agonised
forecast. Alston was mildly interested. He thought she couldn't have
done anything effective. Her line seemed to be the wildly dramatic.
Stage tricks wouldn't tip the scales, when it came to balloting.
Whatever she had done, Alston, in his heart, hoped it would defeat him,
and leave him to the rich enjoyment of his play-day office and his
books. His mother could realise then that he had done his best, and
leave him to a serene progress toward middle age. But when he got as far
as that he remembered that his defeat would magnify Weedon Moore and
miserably concluded he ought rather to suffer the martyrdom of office.
Would Anne like him if he were defeated? He, too, was wandering about
the town, and the bravado of his suit to her came back to him. It was
easy to seek her out, it seemed so natural to be with her, so strange to
live without her. Laughing a little, though nervously, at himself, he
walked up the winding pathway to her house and asked for her. No, he
would not come in, if she would be so good as to come to him. Anne came,
the warmth of the firelight on her cheeks and hands. She had been
sitting by the hearth reading to the colonel. Alston took her hands and
drew her out to him.

"It's not very cold," he said. "One minute, Anne. Won't you love me if I
am not a mayor?"

Anne didn't answer. She stood there, her hands in his, and Alston
thought she was the stillest thing he had ever seen.

"You might be a snow maiden," he said. "Or an ice maiden. Or marble.
Anne, I've got to melt you if you're snow and ice. Are you?" Then all he
could think of was the old foolishness, "Darling Anne."

When he kissed her, immediately upon this, it was in quite a commonplace
way, as if they were parting for an hour or so and had the habit of easy
kissing.

"Why don't you speak," said Alston, in a rage of delight in her, "you
little dumb person, you?"

Anne did better. She got her hands out of his and lifted them to draw
his face again to hers.

"How silly we are," said Anne. "And the door is swinging open, and it'll
let all the cold in on Farvie's feet."

Alston said a few more things of his own, wild things he was surprised
at and forgot immediately and that she was always to remember, and they
rea