with a sardine laid out decently between two crackers in one hand, and a
blue "granite" cup of plebeian beer in the other, I told them all about
that banquet, and some of the things we had to eat and drink--whereat they
laughed, too. The contrast was certainly amusing. But, somehow, I wouldn't
have changed, just then, if I could have done so. That, also, is something
I'm not psychologist enough to explain.

That last waltz with Miss King was like to prove disastrous, for we
swished uncomfortably close to her father, standing scowling at Frosty and
some of the others of our crowd near the door. Luckily, he didn't see us,
and at the far end Miss King stopped abruptly. Her cheeks were pink, and
her eyes looked up at me--wistfully, I could almost say.

"I think, Mr. Carleton, we had better stop," she said hesitatingly. "I
don't believe your enmity is so ungenerous as to wish to cause me
unpleasantness. You surely are convinced now that I am not afraid of you,
so the truce is over."

I did not pretend to misunderstand. "I'm going home at once," I told her
gently, "and I shall take my spectacular crowd along with me; but I'm not
sorry I came, and I hope you are not."

She looked at me soberly, and then away. "There is one thing I should like
to say," she said, in so low a tone I had to lean to catch the words.
"Please don't try to ride through King's Highway again; father hates you
quite enough as it is, and it is scarcely the part of a gentleman to
needlessly provoke an old man."

I could feel myself grow red. What a cad I must seem to her! "King's
Highway shall be safe from my vandal feet hereafter," I told her, and