"I feel like Cinderella and her godmother rolled into one," she thought disconsolately. "I waved my wand, and made so many things happen, and now that the clock has struck, again here I am outside in the cold and dark,"--the wind was taking on a keener edge, and she shivered slightly in her muslins--"with nothing but a pumpkin shell to show for it. Hitty says that getting what you want is apt to be unlikely business, and I'm inclined to think she's right." It seemed to her suddenly that the thing she had wanted,--a picturesque, cleverly executed restaurant where people could be fed according to the academic ideals of an untried young woman like herself was an unthinkable thing. The power of illusion failed for the moment. 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 café. In fact, I am never happy eating inside." "The surroundings are picturesque?" Nancy hazarded.