"I--I haven't said very much," she began; "I'm impulsive enough to be
overgrateful and say too much. I hope you understand me; do you?"

"Of course; you're very good. It was nothing; you could have stopped your
horse yourself. People do that sort of thing for one another as a matter
of course."

"But not at the risk you took----"

"No risk at all," he said hastily.

She thought otherwise, and thought it so fervently that, afraid of
emotion, she turned her cold, white profile to him and studied her horse,
haughty lids adroop. The same insolent sweetness was in her eyes when
they again reverted to him. He knew the look; he had encountered it often
enough in the hallway and on the stairs. He knew, too, that she must
recognize him; yet, under the circumstances, it was for her to speak
first; and she did not, for she was at that age when horror of overdoing
anything chokes back the scarcely extinguished childish instinct to say
too much. In other words, she was eighteen and had had her first season
the winter past--the winter when he had not been visible among the
gatherings of his own kind.

[Illustration: "'Those squirrels are very tame,' she observed calmly."]

"Those squirrels are very tame," she observed calmly.

"Not always," he said. "Try to hold this one, for example."

She raised her pretty eyebrows, then accepted the lump of fluffy fur from