He looked at her with his honest hazel eyes, and she liked him. She felt
he was telling her the truth, but it seemed to be a truth he was just
finding out for himself as he talked.

"Why do you run away from a woman? How could a woman hurt you? Can she
shoot?"

He flashed her a look of amusement and pain mingled.

"She uses other weapons," he said. "Her words are darts, and her looks are
swords."

"What a queer woman! Does she ride well?"

"Yes, in an automobile!"

"What is that?" She asked the question shyly as if she feared he might
laugh again; and he looked down, and perceived that he was talking far
above her. In fact, he was talking to himself more than to the girl.

There was a bitter pleasure in speaking of his lost lady to this wild
creature who almost seemed of another kind, more like an intelligent bird
or flower.

"An automobile is a carriage that moves about without horses," he answered
her gravely. "It moves by machinery."

"I should not like it," said the girl decidedly. "Horses are better than
machines. I saw a machine once. It was to cut wheat. It made a noise, and
did not go fast. It frightened me."