with a short, cutting stubble beneath the upper
surface of waving grass and weeds. It no longer held any allurement
for him and yet he did not want to go back to the house. He looked at
his watch. It was five o'clock. Some of the old ladies would still be
there. They would be sitting about on the horsehair chairs making
lugubrious conversation. Back toward the left stretched the pike,
white and dusty enough. But there were trees along the edge of it, and
he remembered the grass in the fence corners to be long and fresh and
succulent as a rule, even in midsummer. Slowly he started in that
direction. When he reached the boundary fence he was dripping with
perspiration and his shoes and trouser hems were covered with the
yellow dust. He climbed the fence, and as he stepped out into the road
he saw an automobile approaching in the distance, dipping down a hill
to the creek that broke the stretch toward Guests. It was not often
that motors of any distinction saw fit to travel into Bloomfield; the
pike was not good enough. But this approaching car seemed to be one of
some distinction--was long and rather rakish, had a deep sound to the
exhaust as it started up the hill toward him. Idly he watched it.
There were two passengers, a man and a woman, slouched well down in
the seats. What could they be doing in the heat of the afternoon with
the top down and in all that blazing sunlight? He stepped over to the
side of the road and dragged his feet, first one and then the other,
in the grass to wipe off some of the dust. He knew that he was hot and
dirty and dishevelled, but he did not care much. On came the car. As
it came nearer it lost its interest to him and he sat down in the
grass and plucked a blade to chew, paying it no further attention.
Suddenly, to his surprise, he realized it was stopping and then the
woman called to him.

At first he did not recognize her. Her face was quite red from the sun
and she had on a fetching little close-fitting motor-bonnet with
fluttering lavender strings. A long lemon-coloured duster enveloped
the rest of her. She was quite pretty, with the contrast of colour,
with her hair all snugly tucked away. It did not look like Mary
Louise, but it was. He felt very conscious of his dusty old suit and
his wilting collar and his flushed and perspiring face, as he came and
stood by the car.

"This is Mr. Claybrook, Joe," she said, looking at him gravely.

He remembered then the big, confident man tha