decoration of a rich man's house in the neighbourhood had brought him
thus into my solitude, and, that work completed, he would return to his
home in New York.

Meanwhile the morning was going by as we talked, and, putting up his
sketch-box, he accepted my invitation to join me at lunch.

Such was the manner of my meeting, in the guise of a trespasser, with the
dear friend to whom I had brought the decisive news of the death of
Summer, as he was innocently making a salad, _in antiquam silvam_, on
that sad September evening.




CHAPTER IV

SALAD AND MOONSHINE


"Do you remember that first salad you made us, Colin?" I said, as we sat
over our coffee, and Colin was filling his little pipe. "A daring work of
art, a fantastic _tour de force_, of apples, and lettuce, and wild
strawberries, and I don't know what else."

"I believe I mixed in some May-apples, too. It was a great stunt ...
well, no more May-apples and strawberries this year," he finished, with a
sigh, and we both sat silently smoking, thinking over the good Summer
that was gone.