The End of Solitude

A rain-washed world, smelling sweet as a wet rose, a cloudless sky
delicately blue, and a swollen stream tumbling and foaming under the
bridge--of these Mr. Eddie Brandes was agreeably conscious as he
stepped out on the verandah after breakfast, and, unclasping a large
gold cigar case, inserted a cigar between his teeth.

He always had the appearance of having just come out of a Broadway
barber shop with the visible traces of shave, shampoo, massage, and
manicure patent upon his person.

His short, square figure was clothed in well-cut blue serge; a smart
straw hat embellished his head, polished russet shoes his remarkably
small feet. On his small fat fingers several heavy rings were
conspicuous. And the odour of cologne exhaled from and subtly pervaded
the ensemble.

Across the road, hub-deep in wet grass and weeds, he could see his
wrecked runabout, glistening with raindrops.

He stood for a while on the verandah, both hands shoved deep into his
pockets, his cigar screwed into his cheek. From time to time he
jingled keys and loose coins in his pockets. Finally he sauntered down
the steps and across the wet road to inspect the machine at closer
view.

Contemplating it tranquilly, head on one side and his left eye closed
to avoid the drifting cigar smoke, he presently became aware of a
girl in a pink print dress leaning over the grey parapet of the
bridge. And, picking his way among the puddles, he went toward her.

"Good morning, Miss Carew," he said, taking off his straw hat.