As he turned the corner into her street, ten years rolled away from him; he dreamed the childish, impossible dreams of a very youth.  She might be coming down the steps as he passed.  Fate might even send a drunkard or an obstreperous cabman for him to thrash in her service.  But when he reached the house, nothing happened.  The front door remained firmly shut; no open window gave a delicious glimpse of Annette.  After his machine had gone ahead to such position that he could no longer scan the house without impolite craning of his neck, he found that his breath was coming fast.  Awakened from his dream, a little ashamed of it, he opened the control and shot his machine ahead to the violation of all speed laws.  He was crossing Central Park West, and the smooth opening of the park driveway was before him, when he looked up and saw—­Annette.

Her honey-colored hair, glistening dull in the autumn sunshine, identified her even before he caught her characteristic walk—­graceful and fast enough, but a little languid, too.  She was dressed in a plain tailor suit, a turban, low, heavy shoes.

He slowed down the automobile to a crawl, that he might enter the park after her.  A boyish embarrassment smote him; if he drove up and spoke to her, it would look premeditated.  So he hesitated between two courses, knowing well which he would pursue in the end.  As he entered the park, still a dozen yards behind her, he saw that the footpath which she was following branched out from the automobile drive.  Within a few paces, she would disappear behind a hydrangea bush.  On that perception, he gave all speed to his machine, shot alongside and stopped.

Even before he reached her, she had turned and faced him.  He fancied that the smile of recognition on her face had started even before she began to turn; she did not appear surprised, only pleased.  Beating around in his mind for a graceful word of introduction, he accomplished an abrupt and ungraceful one.

“Will you ride?” he asked.

“With pleasure,” she responded simply, and in one light motion she was in the seat beside him.  He turned at low speed north, and as his hands moved over wheels and levers, she was asking: 

“How did you happen to be here?”

He put a bold front on it.

“I drove past your home, by instinct, because I was coming north.  And I saw you.  Which of your spirits”—­he was bold enough for the moment to make light of her sacred places—­“sent you out-of-doors just before I passed?”

“The spirit of the night before,” she answered, passing from smiles to gravity.  “That long sleep without rest has been troubling me again.  I remembered how exercise set me up in the country, and I started out for a little air.  Aunt Paula is out this morning—­something about the plumbing.  Dear Auntie, how I’d love to take those cares off her shoulders.  She’ll never let me, though.  And next week our housekeeper, whom we’ve held for two years, is leaving; she must advertise and receive applicants—­and likely get the wrong one.  So that’s another worry for her.  I was alone in the house when I awoke, and I could not waste such autumn weather as this!”