Only, I had led a curiously uneventful life, up to that time, aside from my experiences in the war; my knowledge of women was limited to social amenities and books; the light loves of the average young sower of wild oats had never appealed to me; and so I had to struggle against a very torrent of dammed-up longing and emotion now that I had met Natalie. For I was wildly, hopelessly in love with her. We had only known each other for some three weeks, I know, but the thing had come on me like a very flash of revelation, and was unmistakable and not to be denied. They say that women are aware of these things. If she knew that I loved her, she at least did not show it, by word or look. And, of course, after a friendship of only three weeks, I had done my best to hide my feelings until I could give her a chance to “get used to me,” as I expressed it to myself. She was very lovely that morning. The sun vied with the wind in tormenting me by playing hide-and-seek in her wayward masses of hair. Her beautiful face radiated health and happiness, so that passers-by turned and watched her brazenly. And ever the lovely eyes looked into mine, clear, innocent and friendly, until laughter and badinage died on my lips and I rode beside her tongue-tied and almost blind with longing to take her into my arms, there in the sunlight, and tell her that she meant the past, the present, the future and all life to me. Perhaps she guessed. For she talked on at random and more rapidly than usual, until I recovered some show of casual companionship, and presently she told me that she was tired and asked me to take her home. But at her door she left me with lowered eyes and only a faint “Good-by,” so that, for some reason, I left her house happier than I had ever been in my life. By the time I had bathed and dressed for my lunch with Ivanovitch, something of the mood of the morning had passed and I was back in the spirit of my quest again. I called for him in my little car and took him to an inn out on the Peekskill road. It is a beautiful place, that inn, and I think the Russian enjoyed himself, although I could not supply him with anything to match his wonderful tea. But I’m not so sure that he enjoyed the drive. He struck me as something of a hothouse product, and I drive rather fast. By the time we got there I had schooled myself to a line of subtly degrading conversation to spring on him, more in keeping with his tastes, I hoped. It succeeded better than I expected. I discovered that the precious Mr. Ivanovitch followed my lead with extraordinary alacrity. In his subtle and charming way he gave vent to a series of the nastiest remarks that I have ever listened to. It would have been a real pleasure to throw him over the balcony of the inn, into the gorge some fifty feet below. But I had more than my personal tastes to consider in that interview.