A rain-washed world, smelling sweet as a wet rose, a cloudless sky

delicately blue, and a swollen stream tumbling and foaming under the

bridge--of these Mr. Eddie Brandes was agreeably conscious as he

stepped out on the verandah after breakfast, and, unclasping a large

gold cigar case, inserted a cigar between his teeth.

He always had the appearance of having just come out of a Broadway

barber shop with the visible traces of shave, shampoo, massage, and

manicure patent upon his person.

His short, square figure was clothed in well-cut blue serge; a smart

straw hat embellished his head, polished russet shoes his remarkably

small feet. On his small fat fingers several heavy rings were

conspicuous. And the odour of cologne exhaled from and subtly pervaded

the ensemble.

Across the road, hub-deep in wet grass and weeds, he could see his

wrecked runabout, glistening with raindrops.

He stood for a while on the verandah, both hands shoved deep into his

pockets, his cigar screwed into his cheek. From time to time he

jingled keys and loose coins in his pockets. Finally he sauntered down

the steps and across the wet road to inspect the machine at closer

view.

Contemplating it tranquilly, head on one side and his left eye closed

to avoid the drifting cigar smoke, he presently became aware of a

girl in a pink print dress leaning over the grey parapet of the

bridge. And, picking his way among the puddles, he went toward her.

"Good morning, Miss Carew," he said, taking off his straw hat.

She turned her head over her shoulder; the early sun glistened on his

shiny, carefully parted hair and lingered in glory on a diamond scarf

pin.

"Good morning," she said, a little uncertainly, for the memory of

their first meeting on the bridge had not entirely been forgotten.

"You had breakfast early," he said.

"Yes."

He kept his hat off; such little courtesies have their effect; also it

was good for his hair which, he feared, had become a trifle thinner

recently.

"It is beautiful weather," said Mr. Brandes, squinting at her through

his cigar smoke.

"Yes." She looked down into the tumbling water.

"This is a beautiful country, isn't it, Miss Carew?"

"Yes."

With his head a little on one side he inspected her. There was only

the fine curve of her cheek visible, and a white neck under the

chestnut hair; and one slim, tanned hand resting on the stone

parapet.

"Do you like motoring?" he asked.

She looked up: "Yes.... I have only been out a few times."

"I'll have another car up here in a few days. I'd like to take you

out."

She was silent.

"Ever go to Saratoga?" he inquired.

"No."

"I'll take you to the races--with your mother. Would you like to go?"




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