ort of the cynical gods? . . .
sentimental folly that she had called exaltation? After all! After
all!

Could she recapture that mood when she returned? Certainly, whatever
this man wanted of her, it would be hard facts, not illusions, he would
invite her to deal with. Even when he had been the most passionate of
lovers, his brain had always seemed to stand aloof, luminous and
factual. He had not an illusion. He saw life as it was, and although
his manners were suave and polished, and his voice the most beautiful
she had ever heard, he could be brutally direct when it suited his
purpose. For a moment she hated him as ardently as she had for a time
after he left her.

They descended into lower and lower altitudes until the air grew
intensely hot, physically depressing after the cold wine of the
mountains; finally, ten minutes ahead of time, they drove into the
doubly depressing village of Huntersville. It was no uglier than
thousands of other villages and small towns that look as if built to
demonstrate the American contempt for beauty, but the fact mitigated
nothing to eyes accustomed to the picturesqueness of mountain villages
in Europe, where the very roofs are artistic and the peasants have the
grace to wear the dress of their ancestors.

There were a few farms in the valley, but if Huntersville had not been
a junction of sorts, it is doubtful if it would have consisted of
anything but a "general store," now that the saloons were closed.
There was one long crooked street, with the hotel at one end, the Store
at the other (containing the post office), and a church, shops for
automobile supplies, two garages, a drug store, and a candy store;
eight or ten cottages filled the interstices. Men were working in the
fields, but those in Huntersville proper seemed to be exhausted with
loafing. Campers going in and out of the woods needing shelter for a
night, and people demanding meals between trains, kept the dismal
looking hotel open and reasonably clean.

The situation was very beautiful, for the mountains rose behind and
there was a brawling stream.

Mr. Dinwiddie having ascertained that "Mr." Hohenhauer had received his
message and gone for a walk, leaving word he would return at ten
o'clock, Mary went into the hotel parlor to wait for him. The room was
seldom used, patrons, local and otherwise, preferring the Bar of happy
memories, and it smelled musty. She opened the windows and glanced
about distast