“You might like driving through the farm--good road all the way from that tall elm down there,” suggested Leila, “and it takes you through our woods. The maples are putting on their pink bonnets. There’s a winding stretch over yonder that’s a little wild, but it’s interesting, and you can’t get lost. It would be a shame to dash back to town without seeing something of this gorgeous day!” “All right, thanks; I’ll try it,” said Bruce. With his roadster in motion he wondered dejectedly whether there was any way of remaining in the town and yet avoiding Franklin Mills and his family. But the sight of Millicent had heartened him. The glowing woodlands were brighter for his words with her. He wished he might have taken her away from Mills and his party and ridden alone with her in the golden haze of the loveliest of autumn afternoons.... Suddenly when he was beyond the Deer Trail boundaries and running along slowly he came upon a car drawn up close to the stake-and-rider fence that enclosed a strip of woodland. His quiet approach over the soft winding road had not been noted by the two occupants of the car, a man and a woman. Two lovers, presumably, who had sought a lonely spot where they were unlikely to be observed, and Bruce was about to speed his car past them when the woman lifted her head with an involuntary cry of surprise that caused him, quite as involuntarily, to turn his gaze upon her. It was Constance Mills; her companion was George Whitford. “Hello, there!” Whitford cried, and Bruce stopped his car and got out. “Mrs. Mills and I are out looking at the scenery. We started for the Faraway Club, but lost interest.” “Isn’t this a heavenly day?” remarked Mrs. Mills with entire serenity. “George and I have been talking poetry--an ideal time for it!” She held up a book. “Yeats--he’s so marvelous! Where on earth are you wandering to?” “I’ve been to Deer Trail--a little errand with Mr. Mills for my boss.” “Oh, is Mr. Mills at the farm? What is it--a party?” she asked carelessly. “Yes, Miss Mills, Miss Harden, Mrs. Torrence and Mrs. Freeman are there to ride--I didn’t make them all out.” “It sounds quite gay,” she said languidly. “I’ve thought a lot about our talk yesterday. You evidently delivered Leila home without trouble. It was awfully sweet of you, I’m sure. I don’t believe we’ll go in to the farm, George. I think a crowd of people would bore me today, and we must get back to town.” Whitford started his car, and as they moved away Constance leaned out and smiled and waved her hand. Bruce stood for a moment gazing after them, deep in thought. Constance Mills, he decided, was really a very clever woman. II