This was a heavy boat-load, for it was just theater time--they were
still coming. And suddenly his heart bounded and stopped. Of course--he
was utterly foolish not to have known--it was she--Billy Strong's
bewitching cousin, the girl from Orange. There she stood with her big,
brown eyes searching, gazing here and there, as lovely, as incongruous
as a wood-nymph strayed into a political meeting. The feather of her hat
tossed in the May breeze; the fading light from the window behind her
shone through loose hair about her face, turned it into a soft dark
aureole; the gray of her tailor gown was crisp and fresh as spring-time.
To Rex's eyes no picture had ever been more satisfying.

Suddenly she caught sight of him, and her face lighted as if lamps had
shone out of a twilight, and in a second he had her hand in his, and was
talking away, with responsibility and worry, and that heavy weight on
the truck back there, quite gone out of the world. She was in it, and
himself--the world was full. The girl seemed to be as oblivious of
outside facts, as he, for it was quite two minutes, and the last
straggler from the boat had disappeared into the street before she broke
into one of his sentences.

"Why, but--I forgot. You made me forget entirely, Mr. Fairfax. I'm going
to the theater with my cousin, Billy Strong. He ought to be here--where
is he?"

Rex shivered lest her roving eyes might answer the question, for Billy's
truck with Billy slumbering peacefully on it, lay in full view not fifty
feet away. But her gaze passed unsuspiciously over the prostrate,
huddled form.

"It's very queer--I'm sure this was the right boat." She looked up at