wanted to think things over; they would be clearer, perhaps, if he had Mary Langton out of his eyes and the operative’s window before him. And he had to show himself, so that Babbing would understand that he had made his entrance into the bungalow successfully.
He came out the door upon his first real sight of the depth and breadth and distance of a mountain view; and it held him staring. Down the broad valley before him, a river looped its way like a garden path, among low hills of farmland that lay asleep in the sunlight, round and indolent; and some had been only half clipped of woods that bristled on their backs like patches of hair on a French poodle. Across the valley, the Catskills shouldered one another to look over the ridge at the farms that had been marching up through the forest, along the river, nearer and nearer, year by year. At the foot of the ridge lay the summer hotel, above Careyville, in a pine grove. The single upper window
