CHAPTER VIII
ALIX THE THIRD
October came, with its red and golden trees, its brown pastures,
its crisp nights and its hazy, smoky days. Fires were kindled in
old-fashioned fireplaces; out in the farmyards busy housewives were
making soap and apple butter in great iron kettles suspended over
blazing logs; wagons laden with wheat and corn rumbled through
country roads and up to the Windom elevator; stores were thriving
under the spur of new-found money; the school was open, Main Street
childless for hours at a time,--and Courtney Thane was still in
Windomville.
He was a frequent, almost constant visitor at the red-brick house
on the knoll. The gossips were busy. Sage winks were exchanged when
Alix and he were seen together in her automobile; many a head was
lowered so that its owner might peer quizzically over the upper
rims of spectacles as they strolled past the postoffice and other
public porches; convicting feminine smiles pursued the young
man up the lane leading to Alix's home. There were some doubtful
head-shakings, but in the main Windomville was rather well pleased
with the prospect. Opinion, though divided, was almost unanimous:
few there were who held that "nothin' would come of it."
Charlie Webster was one of the latter. His early intimacy with the
ex-aviator had suffered a decided slump. His jovial attempts to
plague the young man about his intentions met with the frostiest
reception.
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