Wilfred went to meet the nine-forty from town. The morning had broken gloriously after rain. Oh, the new-washed sky, the glittering trees, and the crystal air! How the group of ugly little buildings which included the station, seemed to plume itself in that sweet clarity—like a gnome dressed in gossamer. That awful ice-cream saloon built two years ago, and already aged, with its cheap cotton awning disfigured by blue lettering stained with the weather; even this was—well, one couldn’t call it lovely, yet he approved it. It belonged. Wilfred’s heart puffed up in his breast like a pop-over in the oven. Too much baking-powder, he thought, grinning at himself. When Stanny got off the train, Wilfred saw in a glance by the down-drawn corners of his mouth, and his wretched eyes, that he had been having one of his bad times. Lucky I happened to write just then, he thought. Stanny’s friendly greeting was forced. “Hello, Wilf!” “Hello, Stanny!” Behind Stanny, Wilfred caught sight of a taller and younger man, whose good looks arrested him like a blow. A youth out of an antique tale; beautiful, hard, and unselfconscious. Wilfred’s imagination galloped off. To his astonishment, Stanny turned around to allow the young man to come up. “I brought a fellow along,” Stanny mumbled. “Thought you wouldn’t mind. His name is Taswell.” “Mind! Of course not!” cried Wilfred, concealing his wonder. “We’re in luck with the weather.” The young fellow’s face was yellowish; his eyes and his lips cruel with pain. He was mute, or almost so; muttered something in response to Wilfred’s greeting, while his eyes bolted in distaste. He too! thought Wilfred. Taswell was glancing around at the unfamiliar scene. “It’s a gashly little boro, isn’t it?” said Wilfred grinning. “Never mind. Once we climb the hill yonder, we’ll leave the paths of progress behind. Come on, you fellows.” “Shouldn’t we go to your house first?” asked Stanny, mindful of politeness. “Nope! Frances Mary doesn’t expect us until we come back.” Stanny looked relieved. The two men came along in silence after Wilfred. Wilfred rattled away. “I thought we’d head first for New City—an amusing village in spite of its name; then north through Pearl River and Nanuet, and back to the Highlands. We can make West Point if you’re interested in that sort of thing; but I should say, keep back from the Hudson a mile or so. There are lovely little lakes in there, with forgotten roads from one to another. We’ll have to come down into the valley to find a bed . . . But of course if you don’t feel like strenuous walking, we can stop anywhere,” he added with a glance at his companions. “You can’t walk too far for me,” said Taswell, shortly. “Nor me!” said Stanny. “Gosh! I needed this!” cried Wilfred, breathing deep. “I had worked myself to a fare-you-well!”