Northrup was a tall, lean man with a slant of the body that suggested resistance. His face, too, carried out the impression. The eyes, deep set and keenly gray, brooded questioningly when the humour of a situation did not control them. The mouth was not an architectural mouth; the lines had been evolved; the mouth was still in the making. It might become hard or bitter: it could never become cruel. There was hope in the firm jaw, and the week of outdoor air and sun had done much to remove the pallor of sickness and harden the muscles. With every mile that set him apart from his old environment the eyes grew less gloomy; the lines of the mouth more relaxed: in fact, Northrup's appearance at that moment might have made Manly sympathize with the creator of Frankenstein. The released Northrup held startling possibilities. Striding ahead, whistling, swinging his stick, he permitted himself to recall the face of the woman in the yellow house. He had taken the faces of women in the past largely for granted. They represented types, ages, periods. Only once before had he become aware of what Life, as he had not known it, could do to women's faces: While he was writing his last book--the one that had lifted him from a low literary level and set him hopefully upon a higher--he had lived, for a time, on the lower East Side of New York; had confronted the ugly results of an existence evolved from chance, not design. But this last face--Life had done something to it that he could not comprehend. What was it? Then Northrup suddenly concluded that Life had done nothing to it--had, in fact, left it alone. At this point, Northrup resorted to detail. Her eyes were almost golden: the lashes made them seem darker. The face was young and yet it held that expression of age that often marks the faces of children: a wondering look, yet sweetly contemptuous: not quite confident, but amused. Now he had it! The face was like a mirror; it reflected thought and impression. Life had had nothing to do with it. Very good, so far. "And her voice! Queer voice to be found here"--Northrup was keen about voices; they instantly affected him. "Her voice had tones in it that vibrated. It might be the product of--well, everything which it probably wasn't." This was laughable. Northrup would not have been surprised at that moment to have seen The Face in the flaming bushes by the roadside. "I wonder if there is any habitation between that yellow house and the inn?" He pulled himself together and strode on. Hunger and weariness were overcoming moods and fancies. There was not. The gold and scarlet hills rose unbroken to the left and the road wound divertingly by the lake. There was no wind; scarcely a stirring of the leaves, but birds sang and fish darted in the clear water that reflected the colour and form of every branch and twig.