Morgan turned into the room and shut the door. Thaddeus dropped the lilac promptly and opened the gate.
"I seem to object to his shutting that door." He walked up the garden path, tapping the ground briskly with his cane, seeming to have in mind things critical and important.
[Chapter III]
Of Morgan Map and his Purposes
Early frosts in October turned the maples into pillars of fire; followed a long Indian summer, hazy, even-footed, thoughtful days; as if after making ready this ceremonial purple and red and gold, gold brown of the meadows, blue and gold of aster and golden-rod by roadsides and meadow edges, veiled purple of the sweet fern in high pastures, the year remembered that it was not a pageantry of entry and advance, but of departure, and walked after the banners in recessional mood. In November red and yellow leaves had flickered past the windows and were raked into heaps on the village green.
Helen kicked through the leaves, scattering them with a dry rustle. "I'm as fit as can be. Morgan."
"Don't jump the fence."
"I hadn't thought of it. It's the very thing."
"Wait."
She stopped and looked at him.