The casino band was playing a waltz—­a waltz.  What a fool he had been to tear deliberately ten years of his life from the calendar of existence for one who had given him up for the false joys that wealth—­“tum ti tum ti tum ti”—­how did that waltz go?  Butthose years had not been sacrificed—­had they not brought him the star and pearl of all the world, the youngest and beautifulest of—­

“But do not come on Thursday evening,” she had insisted.  Perhaps by now she would be moving slowly and gracefully to the strains of that waltz, held closely by West-Pointers or city commuters, while he, who had read in her eyes things that had recompensed him for ten lost years of life, moped like some wild animal in its mountain den.  Why should—­”

“Damn it,” said the hermit, suddenly, “I’ll do it!”

He threw down his Marcus Aurelius and threw off his gunny-sack toga.  He dragged a dust-covered trunk from a corner of the cave, and with difficulty wrenched open its lid.

Candles he had in plenty, and the cave was soon aglow.  Clothes—­ten years old in cut—­scissors, razors, hats, shoes, all his discarded attire and belongings, were dragged ruthlessly from their renunciatory rest and strewn about in painful disorder.

A pair of scissors soon reduced his beard sufficiently for the dulled razors to perform approximately their office.  Cutting his own hair was beyond the hermit’s skill.  So he only combed and brushed it backward as smoothly as he could.  Charity forbids us to consider the heartburnings and exertions of one so long removed from haberdashery and society.

At the last the hermit went to an inner corner of his cave and began to dig in the soft earth with a long iron spoon.  Out of the cavity he thus made he drew a tin can, and out of the can three thousand dollars in bills, tightly rolled and wrapped in oiled silk.  He was a real hermit, as this may assure you.

You may take a brief look at him as he hastens down the little mountain-side.  A long, wrinkled black frock-coat reached to his calves.  White duck trousers, unacquainted with the tailor’s goose, a pink shirt, white standing collar with brilliant blue butterfly tie, and buttoned congress gaiters.  But think, sir and madam—­ten years!  From beneath a narrow-brimmed straw hat with a striped band flowed his hair.  Seeing him, with all your shrewdness you could not have guessed him.  You would have said that he played Hamlet—­or the tuba—­or pinochle—­you would never have laid your hand on your heart and said:  “He is a hermit who lived ten years in a cave for love of one lady—­to win another.”

The dancing pavilion extended above the waters of the river.  Gay lanterns and frosted electric globes shed a soft glamour within it.  A hundred ladies and gentlemen from the inn and summer cottages flitted in and about it.  To the left of the dusty roadway down which the hermit had tramped were the inn and grill-room.  Something seemed to be on there, too.  The windows were brilliantly lighted, and music was playing—­music different from the two-steps and waltzes of the casino band.