colors with which they were painted, mellowing the nakedness of others. The night was very still and warm, and sweet with the purity of distances.
The river murmured to the village as it slid by and people sitting on their stoops talked back and forth, their voices carrying well in the night air. Philip Rowe came across the street beside Henry who had gone to the train to guide stray travelers to his shelter, and Marcia, from the hotel verandah, watched him come, rocking gently in the rickety chair, her cool smile hidden by the shadows.
She remained there while he registered and went to his room, waiting patiently, because the rooms were stuffy and she knew he would return. He came out of the door and stopped to light a cigar. She could see his frown in the glare of the match; she saw, too, the look of amazement when she spoke. He stared toward her incredulously and did not move until the match burned out. Then she laughed.
He came with quick steps and leaned over her chair. "Marcia Murray!"
"Why so dramatic?" She laughed as she let her hand rest in his.
"Of all places to find you!"
"You knew I was at Dick Mason's."
"But that's a long way from here!"
"Love," she said mockingly, "laughs at locksmiths and bad roads."
His hand tightened on hers till she winced.
"Oh, not that, Phil! You're so eager and impulsive—and such an optimist. I had no idea you were coming, though I believe John did mention it."
He dropped her hand and leaned against the railing.
