But this last face––Life had done something to it that he could not comprehend. What was it? Then Northrup suddenly concluded that Life had done nothing to it––had, in fact, left it alone. At this point, Northrup resorted to detail. Her eyes were almost golden: the lashes made them seem darker. The face was young and yet it held that expression of age that often marks the faces of children: a wondering look, yet sweetly contemptuous: not quite confident, but amused.
Now he had it! The face was like a mirror; it reflected thought and impression. Life had had nothing to do with it. Very good, so far.
“And her voice! Queer voice to be found here”––Northrup was keen about voices; they instantly affected him. “Her voice had tones in it that vibrated. It might be the product of––well, everything which it probably wasn’t.”
This was laughable.
Northrup would not have been surprised at that moment to have seen The Face in the flaming bushes by the roadside.
“I wonder if there is any habitation between that yellow house and the inn?” He pulled himself together and strode on. Hunger and weariness were overcoming moods and 9 fancies. There was not. The gold and scarlet hills rose unbroken to the left and the road wound divertingly by the lake.
There was no wind; scarcely a stirring of the leaves, but birds sang and fish darted in the clear water that reflected the colour and form of every branch and twig.
In another half hour Northrup saw the inn on ahead. He knew it at once from a picture-card he had bought earlier in the day. It set so close to the lake as to give the impression of getting its feet wet. It was a long, low white building with more windows, doors, and chimneys than seemed necessary. Everything looked trim and neat and smoke curled briskly above the hospitable house. There were, apparently, many fires in action, and they bespoke comfort and food.
Northrup, upon reaching the inn, saw that a mere strip of lawn separated it from the road and lake, the piazza was on a level with the ground and three doors gave choice of entrance to the wayfarer. Northrup chose the one near the middle and respectfully tapped on it, drawing back instantly. He did not mean to have a second joke played upon him by doors.
There was a stirring inside, a dog gave a sleepy grunt, and a man’s voice called out: