It was a day easily associated with those abstract truths and purities that dissolve in the sunshine or fade out in mocking laughter by the light of the moon.

The trees and clouds were carved in classical severity; the sounds of the countryside had harmonized to a monotone, metallic as a trumpet, breathless as the Grecian urn.
The day had put Amory in such a contemplative mood that he caused much annoyance to several motorists who were forced to slow up considerably or else run him down.

So engrossed in his thoughts was he that he was scarcely surprised at that strange phenomenon--cordiality manifested within fifty miles of Manhattan--when a passing car slowed down beside him and a voice hailed him.

He looked up and saw a magnificent Locomobile in which sat two middle-aged men, one of them small and anxious looking, apparently an artificial growth on the other who was large and begoggled and imposing.
"Do you want a lift ?" asked the apparently artificial growth, glancing from the corner of his eye at the imposing man as if for some habitual, silent corroboration.
"You bet I do.

Thanks." The chauffeur swung open the door, and, climbing in, Amory settled himself in the middle of the back seat.