belongs. Isn't a girl's hair a terrible affliction, Mr. King? One of
these days, when papa's back is turned, I'm going to cut it off short,
like a boy's."

An explanation of her presence in the house while her guests were still
in the yard; why explain so trifling a matter? A suggestion that she
retained that lustrous crown of hair just to please her papa, whereas
one who had not been told might have been mistaken in his belief that
this should be one of her greatest prides. Two little fibs for Miss
Gloria; yet, certainly, very small fibs which hurt no one.

Gloria's eyes, despite their soft tenderness, were every whit as quick
as Mark King's when they were, as now, intrigued. Of course both she and
King had heard countless references, one of the other, from Ben Gaynor,
but neither had been greatly interested. King had known that there was a
baby girl, long ago; that fact had been impressed on him with such rare
eloquence that it had created a mental picture which, until now, had
been vivid and like an indelible drawing; he had known, had he ever
paused for reflection, which he had not, that a baby would not stay such
during a period of eighteen years. She had heard a thousand tales of "my
good friend, Mark." Mark, thus, had been in her mind a man of her
father's age, and about such a young girl's romantic ideas do not flock.
But from the first glimpse of the booted figure among the trees she had
sensed other things. King would have blushed had he known how
picturesque he bulked in her eyes; how now, while she smiled at him so
ingenuously, she was doing his thorough-going masculinity full tribute;
how the ruggedness of him, the very scent of the resinous pines he bore
along with him, the clear manlike look of his eyes and the warm dusky
tan of face and hands--even the effect of the careless, worn boots and
the muscular throat showing through an open shirt-collar--put a