The End of Solitude

She turned her head over her shoulder; the early sun glistened on his
shiny, carefully parted hair and lingered in glory on a diamond scarf
pin.

"Good morning," she said, a little uncertainly, for the memory of
their first meeting on the bridge had not entirely been forgotten.

"You had breakfast early," he said.

"Yes."

He kept his hat off; such little courtesies have their effect; also it
was good for his hair which, he feared, had become a trifle thinner
recently.

"It is beautiful weather," said Mr. Brandes, squinting at her through
his cigar smoke.

"Yes." She looked down into the tumbling water.

"This is a beautiful country, isn't it, Miss Carew?"

"Yes."

With his head a little on one side he inspected her. There was only
the fine curve of her cheek visible, and a white neck under the
chestnut hair; and one slim, tanned hand resting on the stone
parapet.

"Do you like motoring?" he asked.

She looked up: "Yes.... I have only been out a few times."

"I'll have another car up here in a few days. I'd like to take you
out."

She was silent.

"Ever go to Saratoga?" he inquired.

"No."

"I'll take you to the races--with your mother. Would you like to go?"

She remained silent so long that he became a trifle uneasy.

"With your mother," he repeated, moving so he could see a little more
of her face.

"I don't think mother would go," she said.

"Would she let you go?"