An errant wind weaving among the roses above her, let through swift glints of sunlight, which played upon her face and hair with fairy touches. There was a dreamy and wistful smile, as in lingering memory of the music she had sung, upon her lips. Her face, broad at the temples and narrowing down to a small, self-willed chin, was modeled nearer upon the sensitive and changeful lines of the triangle than upon the cold and classic oval. Above it the splendid mass of tawny hair was hardly kept respectably within bounds by the prisoning devices of net and band. She was slender, and firm-set, and straight with the soft and strong lines of young, untainted health and vigor. By the warm hues, and the lithe poise of her, she was a creature bred in the happy usages of sunlight and free winds and the open spaces. Again he felt in her that subtle, disturbing, starry quality that makes for dreams. In her hand she swung a broad sun-hat. Reluctantly she lifted her arms to set it on her head. The pulses of Jeremy Robson made a bound of hopefulness. Evidently she was coming out upon the street. Her eyes were lifted and he wondered that he could ever have thought them gray, so flooded were they with hazel lights as they met the radiance, sifting down through the trees. She turned them upon him and a slow recognition grew in them. Opening the gate, she stood waiting. He lifted his hat as he approached. “Good-morning,” she greeted him in that voice which, with its indefinable distinction of accent, had thrilled in his memory, since he had first heard her speak. He returned her greeting, calling her by name. “It is The Record you write for, is it not?” she asked. “Yes. But they don’t print all I write.” “So I infer,” she returned with grave and intent eyes. “Were you disappointed?” “A little.” “I’m sorry.” “I supposed that you had made up your mind that it was not worth writing after all.” “It was worth writing.” “But not worth printing?” “Worth printing, too. But the editors were afraid of offending the Germans. So they killed it.” “Did you write it in that way?” “What way?” “To offend the Germans.” “No. I wrote it to show that there was a place for Americanism even in a German meeting.” “I am glad you did that,” she said quietly. “You’ve a right to be. You’re responsible. For the way I wrote it, I mean. You gave me the notion.” “I am glad of that, too. But I am sorrier than ever that I did not see your article.” “Perhaps I’ll show it to you some day.” She nodded, without asking him how or where. Marcia Ames was one of those individuals who wait unquestioningly and accept generously. “It is quite a coincidence my meeting you here,” she said. “For I wished to ask you about the article.”