"You see what you missed in the past," she observed in a tone slightly
mocking.

"You were not here to suggest it," he returned quietly, with gaze only
for blue eyes.

She suffered them to linger. "I suppose I should feel nattered that a
suggestion from little me--"

"A suggestion from little you would, I fancy, go a long ways with many
people." A spark shone now in the man's steady look; the girl seemed not
afraid of it.

"I am fortunate," she laughed. "A compliment from Mr. John Steele!"

"Why not say--the truth?" he observed.

She stroked her horse's glossy neck and smiled furtively at the soft,
velvet surface. "The truth?" she replied. "What is it? Where shall we
find it? Isn't it something the old philosophers were always searching
for? Plato, and--some of the others we were taught of in school."

He started as if to speak, but his answer remained unuttered; the man's
lips closed tighter; a moment he watched the small gloved hand, then his
gaze turned to the gray sky.

"So you see, I call compliments, compliments," she ended lightly.

He offered no comment; the horses moved on; suddenly she looked at him.