Broadway, where, in order to reach the
great out-of-doors, he must dodge trucks and cabs between miles of
hotels and apartment houses. In fact, he had been manoeuvering,
half-unconsciously, so that he might turn into the park at the
Eighty-Sixth Street entrance and so pass that most important of all
dwellings in Manhattan, the house where Annette Markham lived. Any
irritation which he had felt against her, after the unpleasant evening
before, was lost in his greater irritation with her aunt. Annette
appeared to him, now, as the prize, the reward, of a battle in which
Mrs. Paula Markham was his antagonist.

As he turned the corner into her street, ten years rolled away from
him; he dreamed the childish, impossible dreams of a very youth. She
might be coming down the steps as he passed. Fate might even send a
drunkard or an obstreperous cabman for him to thrash in her service.
But when he reached the house, nothing happened. The front door
remained firmly shut; no open window gave a delicious glimpse of
Annette. After his machine had gone ahead to such position that he
could no longer scan the house without impolite craning of his neck, he
found that his breath was coming fast. Awakened from his dream, a
little ashamed of it, he opened the control and shot his machine ahead
to the violation of all speed laws. He was crossing Central Park West,
and the smooth opening of the park driveway was before him, when he
looked up and saw--Annette.

Her honey-colored hair, glistening dull in the autumn sunshine,
identified her even before he caught her characteristic walk--graceful
and fast enough, but a little languid, too. She was dressed in a plain
tailor suit, a turban, low, heavy shoes.

He slowed down the automobile to a crawl, that he might enter the park
after her. A boyish embarrassment smote him; if he drove up and spoke
to her, it would look premeditated. So he hesitated between two
courses, knowing well which he would pursue in the end. As he entered
the park, still a dozen yards behind her, he saw that the footpath
which she was following branched out from the automobile drive. Within
a few paces, she would disappear behind a hydrangea bush. On that
perception, he gave all speed to his machine, shot alongside and
stopped.

Even before he reached her, she had turned and faced him. He fancied
that the smile of recognition on her face had started even before she
began to turn; she did not appear surprised, only pleas