the white macadam drive that swings steeply down to the bridge and
vanishes in a grove of oak, hickory, and birch. If you stand on the steps
and look west, you can see, through the immediate foliage, the Maiden
County hills, their blue tops contrasting with the nearer green of the
valley. To the left, an obtruding wing checks the view; on the right,
leading straight down to the river, is a well-worn path.

After dinner the party strolled up and down the veranda, gradually
separating into couples. The twilight creeping down found Harvey and Miss
Porter alone by the railing. She stood erect, looking out over the valley,
her scarlet golf jacket thrown back, her hair disordered by the long ride
and curling about her face. Harvey watched her in silence. He was glad
that she was tall; he liked to meet her eyes without looking down. He had
often tried to remember the color of those eyes. Presently she turned and
looked at him.

"They're gray," he said, half to himself.

"No," she replied; "sometimes they are brown and sometimes green. They are
not gray."

Harvey leaned forward.

"I'm sure they are."

For a moment they stood looking into each other's eyes, then she turned
away with a little laugh and removed her sailor hat, swinging it from her
hand.

"Look," she said, with an impulsive gesture toward the west. Harvey