oment. Just what was it that she had hoped to accomplish with this
fling at executive altruism? What was she doing with a French cook in
white uniform, a competent staff of professional dishwashers and
waitresses and kitchen helpers? How had it come about that she owned
so many mounds and heaps and pyramids of silver and metal and linen?
What was this Inn that she had conceived as a project so unimaginably
fine? Who were these shadow people that came and went there? Who was
she? Why with all her vitality and all her hungry yearning for life
and adventure couldn't she even believe in her own substantiality and
focus? Wasn't life even real enough for a creature such as she to
grasp it,--if it wasn't--

She saw a figure that was familiar to her turn in from the avenue, a
tall man in an Inverness with a wide black hat pulled down over his
eyes. For the moment she could not remember who he was, but by the
time he had stopped in front of the big gate, giving utterance to a
well delivered expletive, she knew him perfectly, and stood waiting,
motionless, for him to turn and speak to her. She was sure that he
would have no recollection of her. He turned, but it was some seconds
before he addressed her.

"Doubt thou the stars are fire," he said at last, with a shrug that
admitted her to the companionship of his discomfiture. "Doubt thou the
sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt that your
favorite New York restaurant will be closed on a Sunday night."

"Oh! _is_ it your favorite New York restaurant?" Nancy cried, her
heart in her throat. "It's mine, you know, my--my favorite."

"So I judged, or you wouldn't be beating against the gate so
disconsolately." It was too dark to see his face clearly, but Nancy
realized that he was looking down at her quizzically through the
darkness.

"Do you really like this restaurant?" she persisted.

"In some ways I like it very much. The food is quite possible as you
know, very American in character, but very good American, and it has
the advantage of being served out-of-doors. I am a Frenchman by
adoption, and I like the outdoor cafe. In fact, I am never happy
eating inside."

"The surroundings are picturesque?" Nancy hazarded.

The stranger laughed. "According to the American ideal," he said,
"they are--but I do admit that they show a rather extraordinary
imagination. I've often thought that I should like to make the
acquaintance of the woman,--of course, it's a woman