The Call of the Cumberlands

One wonderful afternoon in October, when the distances were mist-hung,

and the skies very clear, Samson sat across the table from Adrienne

Lescott at a road-house on the Sound. The sun had set through great

cloud battalions massed against the west, and the horizon was fading

into darkness through a haze like ash of roses. She had picked him up

on the Avenue, and taken him into her car for a short spin, but the

afternoon had beguiled them, luring them on a little further, and still

a little further. When they were a score of miles from Manhattan, the

car had suddenly broken down. It would, the chauffeur told them, be the

matter of an hour to effect repairs, so the girl, explaining to the boy

that this event gave the affair the aspect of adventure, turned and led

the way, on foot, to the nearest road-house.

"We will telephone that we shall be late, and then have dinner," she

laughed. "And for me to have dinner with you alone, unchaperoned at a

country inn, is by New York standards delightfully unconventional. It

borders on wickedness." Then, since their attitude toward each other

was so friendly and innocent, they both laughed. They had dined under

the trees of an old manor house, built a century ago, and now converted

into an inn, and they had enjoyed themselves because it seemed to them

pleasingly paradoxical that they should find in a place seemingly so

shabby-genteel a cuisine and service of such excellence. Neither

of them had ever been there before, and neither of them knew that the

reputation of this establishment was in its own way wide--and unsavory.

They had no way of knowing that, because of several thoroughly bruited

scandals which had had origin here, it was a tabooed spot, except for

persons who preferred a semi-shady retreat; and they passed over

without suspicion the palpable surprise of the head waiter when they

elected to occupy a table on the terrace instead of a cabinet

particulier.

But the repairs did not go as smoothly as the chauffeur had expected,

and, when he had finished, he was hungry. So, eleven o'clock found them

still chatting at their table on the lighted lawn. After awhile, they

fell silent, and Adrienne noticed that her companion's face had become

deeply, almost painfully set, and that his gaze was tensely focused on

herself.

"What is it, Mr. South?" she demanded.

The young man began to speak, in a steady, self-accusing voice.

"I was sitting here, looking at you," he said, bluntly. "I was

thinking how fine you are in every way; how there is as much difference

in the texture of men and women as there is in the texture of their

clothes. From that automobile cap you wear to your slippers and

stockings, you are clad in silk. From your brain to the tone of your

voice, you are woven of human silk. I've learned lately that silk isn't

weak, but strong. They make the best balloons of it." He paused and

laughed, but his face again became sober. "I was thinking, too, of your

mother. She must be sixty, but she's a young woman. Her face is smooth

and unwrinkled, and her heart is still in bloom. At that same age,

George won't be much older than he is now."