A few days later Ethan walked into the office of the law firm in Providence, hung his hat on a hook in the closet and blandly inquired for his desk. The members of the firm discussed it later in the privacy of the inner office.

“Looks as though he might be in earnest, anyway,” suggested the senior. “Apparently not afraid of work, eh?”

“Something funny about it,” replied the junior, who was a bit of a pessimist. “It isn’t like a fellow of his sort to give up his summer and buckle down to reading law in July.” He shook his head with misgivings. “It won’t last, mark my word.”

But it did. Business was slack throughout the hot weather and Ethan had plenty of time for reading; and he made the most of it. Several letters came from Vincent reminding him of his promise and urging him to come down to Stillhaven for a while. But always Ethan pleaded press of duties, until Vincent, whose own law shingle had been hanging out for a year and who had yet to find business pressing, felt more convinced than ever that his friend had, to use his own expression, “come a cropper somehow!”

In September Vincent ran down and spent Sunday. Ethan didn’t press him to come again, for his conversation was not of a sort calculated to reconcile a disappointed lover to his lot. The Devereuxs were still at Riverdell, but were returning to their Boston apartments the last of the month.

“She hasn’t forgiven you for not calling,” warned Vincent, “and you’ll have to eat dirt when you do see her, old chap.”

Ethan expressed entire willingness to grovel, but flatly refused to set a date for the proceedings. Vincent departed somewhat huffed, and for some time there was a perceptible coolness between them. Ethan regretted it, but he wasn’t ready yet to trust himself in the rÔle of Vincent’s friend.

His first vacation since he had gone to work came early in October. Then a letter from a real estate agent who had the renting of his property made a journey to Riverdell advisable. He left Providence, with Farrell, in the car one Friday morning, intending to stay in Riverdell over Saturday, and at two o’clock swung the machine in through the big gate of The Larches. It had been a glorious brisk day, they had made record time and Ethan’s spirits had been high. But now, as they rumbled slowly up the circling driveway, old memories were asserting themselves and buoyancy gave place to depression. The maples were aflame in the afternoon sunlight, the Virginia creeper about the porches was radiantly crimson, and along the gleaming white pergola bunches of purple grapes were still aglow. But for all this The Larches had a lonesome look. The windows on the lower floor were shuttered and told eloquently of desertion.

Ethan’s summons at the bell went unanswered for a time. Then footsteps sounded on the marble tiles inside and the big door swung open, revealing a comfortably stout, double-chinned woman who wiped her damp, red hands on her blue calico apron.

“Why, Mr. Ethan!” she exclaimed.

“Yes, it’s I, Mrs. Billings,” he replied. “Farrell, take the car around to the stable and I’ll have William open up for you.”

He stepped into the dimly lighted hall, already filled with the chill of approaching winter, and looked about him. Everything was apparently the same in spite of its recent occupancy. The house had been rented furnished, and plainly the Devereuxs had been satisfied to leave things as they had found them. He took off his coat and tossed it on to the big old-fashioned mahogany couch. Mrs. Billings, the housekeeper, was still chattering volubly.

“If we’d known you was coming, sir, we’d have had the blinds open and the fires lighted.”

“Never mind,” answered Ethan. “Have your husband build a fire in the library and in my room. I shan’t be here beyond Sunday morning. You can give me my meals in the library. I had a letter from Stearns a day or so ago telling me that the Devereuxs had left and asking whether I wanted to rent for the winter. I don’t believe I do. I don’t think I shall rent again at all. Well how have you been, you and that good-for-nothing husband of yours?”

“Nicely, sir, for myself, thank you. And Jonas, he isn’t one of the complaining sort, sir, but he do have the rheumatism something awful in wet weather. And how has your health been, Mr. Ethan?”

“I’ve been frightfully healthy, thank you. Where’s your husband?”

“I’ll call him, sir, at once. He’s out somewheres on the grounds, sir. And I’ll have a fire lit in no time, sir. He’ll be very pleased to see you, sir, will Jonas.” She stopped at the end of the hall and sank her voice to a hoarse whisper. “I fear he’s getting old and failing, Mr. Ethan,” she said despondently. “It—it’s his head sir.”

“Eh?”

“Yes, sir. Along in June it was, Mr. Ethan, or maybe early in the month following, sir, that he came in quite excited like and wild, saying as he had seen you with his own eyes over toward the grove there. Yes, sir. ‘Jonas,’ says I, ‘it’s the sun.’ ‘No, ’taint,’ says he. ‘I saw him with my own eyes,’ says he, ‘a-standing under the trees. And when I looked again he was gone,’ he says. It gave me quite a shock, sir, as you might say.”

“Naturally. And since then you have observed no other symptoms?”

“No, sir, not particular, but he do seem a heap fonder of his victuals than he used to, and I’ve heard tell as that’s a sure sign of a failing intellect, Mr. Ethan.”

“In the case of your victuals, Mrs. Billings,” replied Ethan, “I’d say it was an indication of wisdom.”

The housekeeper bridled and beamed.

“But, really,” continued Ethan, smiling, “I wouldn’t worry about Billings. The fact is, I was down here for a day or so about the time you speak of.”

“Here, sir? And you never came to see us, sir?”

“There—er—there were reasons, Mrs. Billings. And now how about that fire? And send your husband out to unlock the carriage house, please.”

“Yes, sir, directly, sir. And Jonas really saw you, Mr. Ethan, same as he said he did?”

“I think it more than likely, Mrs. Billings.”

“Well, that’s a great load off my mind, sir. Softening of the brain do be so unfortunate!”

Later, just at dusk, Ethan emerged from the library on to the broad cement-paved porch at the side of the house. Pausing to light a cigarette, he passed down the stone steps to the pergola and traversed its length. Fallen leaves rustled softly under his feet and the purple clusters showed the effects of the frost. Once out of the arbor, his steps led him almost unconsciously across the open lawn, russet now and streaked with the long sombre shadows of the trees. He found himself swayed by two desires; one to see the lotus pool again, the other to avoid it. He went on through the twilight grove, filled with a gentle—I had almost said pleasant—sadness. Underfoot the ground was carpeted with the red leaves of the maples. Here and there a white birch stood like a pale gold flame in the dying sunlight. The dark green larches alone held themselves unchanged.

The pool was sadly different. Yellowing lily-pads floated upon the surface, but no blossoms caught the slanting rays of the sun. Ethan sat down under the willow, took his knees into his arms and puffed blue smoke-wreaths into the amber light. Presently a shadow presence came and sat beside him. The presence had violet eyes and red, red lips that smiled wistfully. He didn’t turn his head, for he knew that if he did he would find himself again alone. And presently they talked.

“You were very cruel,” he said sadly.

“I didn’t mean to be,” she answered.

“No, I don’t think you did. You—you just didn’t think, I suppose. It was all a bit of good fun with you. But—it played the deuce with me.”

“Did it?” she asked regretfully.

“But I’m not blaming you—now,” he went on. “I did at first. It seemed needlessly cruel and heartless. But I understand now that it was all my fault. You see, dear, I took it for granted, I thought, that you—cared—the way I did. It was my silly conceit.”

He thought he heard a little sob beside him, but he resisted the temptation to turn and look.

“If only there hadn’t been that kiss,” he continued dreamily. “That—I’ve never quite understood that. Sometimes—I dare say it’s my conceit again—but sometimes I can’t help thinking that you did care—a little—just then! That is the hardest to forgive, dear,—and forget, that kiss. If it wasn’t for the memory of that I think I could stand it better. Why did you do it? Why?”

There was no answer save the sighing of a little breeze which crept down the slope in a floating shower of dead leaves.

“Ah, but I want to know!” he insisted doggedly. “Was it just in fun? Was it merely in pity? It couldn’t have been, I tell you! You never kissed me like that for pity, dear! There was love in your eyes, sweetheart; I saw it; fathoms deep in that purple twilight! Love, do you hear? You can’t deny it, you can’t! And you trembled in my arms! Why did you do it?” he asked sharply.

He turned impetuously,—and sighed. He was all alone. The presence had fled.

He tossed aside the dead cigarette in his hand and shivered. The breeze was growing as the day passed, a chill October breeze laden with the heavy, melancholy aroma of dying leaves. He arose and retraced his steps to the house.