abe Jenney's, the affair might well have assumed the proportions of an
intimacy of long standing rather than that of the chance acquaintance of
an hour. Friends in common, modes of life in common, and incidents in
common are apt to sweep away preliminaries.

Such were Austen's thoughts as he drove to Fairview that September
afternoon when the leaves were turning their white backs to the northwest
breeze. The sun was still high, and the distant hills and mountains were
as yet scarce stained with blue, and stood out in startling clearness
against the sky. Would he see her? That were a pain he scarce dared
contemplate.

He reached the arched entrance, was on the drive. Here was the path again
by which she had come down the hillside; here was the very stone on which
she had stood--awaiting him. Why? Why had she done that? Well-remembered
figure amidst the yellow leaves dancing in the sunlight! Here he had
stopped, perforce, and here he had looked up into his face and smiled and
spoken!

At length he gained the plateau across which the driveway ran, between
round young maples, straight to Fairview House, and he remembered the
stares from the tea-tables, and how she had come out to his rescue. Now
the lawn was deserted, save for a gardener among the shrubs. He rang the
stable-bell, and as he waited for an answer to his summons, the sense of
his remoteness from these surroundings of hers deepened, and with a touch
of inevitable humour he recalled the low-ceiled bedroom at Mr. Jenney's
and the kitchen in Hanover Street; the annual cost of the care of that
lawn and driveway might well have maintained one of these households.

He told the stable-boy to wait. It is to be remarked as curious that the
name of the owner of the house on Austen's lips brought the first thought
of him to Austen's mind. He was going to see and speak with Mr. Flint, a
man who had been his enemy ever since the day he had come here and laid
down his pass on the president's desk; the man who--so he believed until
three days ago--had stood between him and happiness. Well, it did not
matter now.

Austen followed the silent-moving servant through the hall. Those were
the stairs which knew her feet, these the rooms--so subtly
flower-scented--she lived in; then came the narrow passage to the sterner
apartment of the master himself. Mr. Flint was alone, and seated upright
behind the massive oak desk, from which bulwark the president of the
Northeastern was wo