ree roads into the turnpike. Remembering as he passed
the gate posts that he had spoken no parting word to the group under the
mulberry tree, he raised himself in his stirrups, and called back "Good
day to you. Many thanks," in his pleasant voice.

CHAPTER II

IN WHICH DESTINY WEARS THE COMIC MASK

Putting his horse to a canter, Mr. Jonathan Gay rode through the old
gate into the turnpike. His still indignant look was fixed on the
heavy wheelruts ahead, while his handsome though fleshy figure inclined
slightly forward in the saddle after a foreign fashion. Seen close
at hand his face, which was impressive at a distance, lost a certain
distinction of contour, as though the marks of experience had blurred,
rather than accentuated, the original type. The bones of forehead and
nose still showed classic in outline, but in moulding the mouth and chin
nature had not adhered closely to the aristocratic structure beneath.
The flesh sagged a little in places; the brow was a trifle too heavy,
the jaw a trifle too prominent, the lips under the short dark moustache
were a trifle too full. Yet in spite of this coarseness of finish, his
face was well coloured, attractive, and full of generous, if whimsical,
humour. A judge of men would have seen in it proof that Mr. Gay's
character consisted less in a body of organized tendencies than in a
procession of impulses.

White with dust the turnpike crawled straight ahead between blood-red
clumps of sumach and bramble on which the faint sunlight still shone. At
intervals, where the dripping from over-hanging boughs had worn the
road into dangerous hollows, boles of young saplings had been placed
cross-wise in a corduroy pattern, and above them clouds of small belated
butterflies drifted in the wind like blown yellow rose leaves. On the
right the thin corn shocks looked as if they were sculptured in bronze,
and amid them there appeared presently the bent figure of a harvester,
outlined in dull blue against a sky of burnt orange. From the low
grounds beside the river a mist floated up, clinging in fleecy shreds to
the short grass that grew in and out of the bare stubble. The aspect of
melancholy, which was depressing even in the broad glare of noon, became
almost intolerable under the waning light of the afterglow. Miles of
loneliness stretched on either side of the turnpike, which trailed,
without fork or bend, into the flat distance beyond the great pine at
the bars.

For the t