And now he rose from the table, on which he
dreamily dropped his napkin, and got his hat and coat and went out for a
walk. He had not studied the art of fiction so long, in the many private
failures that had preceded his one public success, without being made to
observe that life sometimes dealt in the accidents and coincidences which
his criticism condemned as too habitually the resource of the novelist.
Hitherto he had disdained them for this reason; but since his serial
story was off his hands, and he was beginning to look about him for fresh
material, he had doubted more than once whether his severity was not the
effect of an unjustifiable prejudice.
It struck him now, in turning the corner of the woodlot above the meadow
where the snow-battle had taken place, and suddenly finding himself face
to face with Miss Shirley, that nature was in one of her uninventive
moods and was helping herself out from the old stock-in-trade of fiction.
All the same, he felt a glow of pleasure, which was also a glow of pity;
for while Miss Shirley looked, as always, interesting, she look tired,
too, with a sort of desperate air which did not otherwise account for
itself. She had given, at sight of him, a little start, and a little
"Oh!" dropped from her lips, as if it had been jostled from them.
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