He had begun now to love the man in his heart.
With his mind filled with these thoughts, his hunger for Kate aroused tenfold by the pathos and weird beauty of what he had just heard, he left the group of men who were still discussing the man and his verses, and joined his uncle outside on the top step of the club's high stoop, from which could be seen the full length of the sun-flecked street on which the clubhouse stood, as well as the park in all its spring loveliness.
Unconsciously his eyes wandered across the path where Kate's house stood.

He could see the tall chimneys and the slope of the quaint roof, and but that the foliage hid the lower part, could have seen Kate's own windows.

She was still at home, he had heard, although she was expected to leave for the Red Sulphur any day.
Suddenly, from away up the street, past the corner of the park, there reached his ears a low winding note, which grew louder as it turned the corner, followed by the rattle of wheels and the clatter of horses' feet.

He leaned forward and craned his head in the direction of the sound, his heart in his throat, the blood mounting to his cheeks.

If that was not his father's horn it was wonderfully like it.