I forgot just for a minute that I didn't want to see another man for years and years. He wasn't a man just then, but a bright and colorful illumination. He stood before me full of life and vigor. He was tall and straight. His close-cropped hair shone like gold in the pale gas-light, and there was a tan or glow upon his face that made me think of out-of-doors. His smile, his straightforward gaze, his crisp voice, had brightened that dull little room for me. I went with him. Of course I did--out into the rainy darkness of the late October afternoon, drawn as a child towards the glow of red fire. CHAPTER XI A WALK IN THE RAIN Once on the side-walk Mr. Jennings said, "I'm glad to know your name, for I know you by sight already. Shall we have any umbrella?" "Let's not," I replied. "I like the mist. But how do you know me?" "I thought you would--like the mist, I mean--because you seem to like my woods so well." "Your woods! Why--what woods?" "The ones you walk in every day," he cheerfully replied; "they're mine. I discovered them, and to whom else should they belong?" "I've been trespassing, then." "Oh, no! I'm delighted to lend my woods to you. If you wear blinders and keep your eyes straight ahead and stuff your ears with cotton so you can't hear the trolleys, you can almost cheat yourself into thinking they're real woods with a mountain to climb at the end of them. Do you like that little rustic seat I made beside the lake?" "Did you make it?" "Yes, Saturdays, for recreation last year. I'm afraid it doesn't fit very well." He smiled from out of the light of a sudden lamp-post. "You'll find a birch footstool some day pretty soon. I noticed your feet didn't reach. By the way," he broke off, "pardon me for quoting from you, but _I_ don't think back-season debutantes are like out-of-demand best-sellers--not all of them. Anyhow, all best-sellers do not deteriorate. And tell me, is this chap with the deep-purring car the villain or the hero in your novel--the dark one with the hair blown straight back?" I almost stopped in my amazement. He was quoting from my life history. "I don't understand," I began. I could feel the color in my cheeks. "I dislike mystery. Tell me. Please. How did you--I dislike mystery," I repeated. "Are you angry? It's so dark I can't see. Don't be angry. It was written on theme paper, in pencil, and in a university town theme paper is public property. I found them there one day--just two loose leaves behind the seat--and I read them. Afterwards I saw you--not until afterwards," he assured me, "writing there every day. I asked to be introduced to you when I saw you tucked away in a corner there this afternoon drinking tea behind a fern, so that I could return your property." "Oh, you've kept the leaves! Where are they?" I demanded.