The younger man, a lean, sinewy chap with singularly fine eyes of blue
above lean, tanned cheeks, frowned thoughtfully.

"By no means," said he pleasantly. "Indeed it's quite new to me. Seems
to have blowy white things at the sides like window curtains, doesn't it?"

"A nomadic young woman, I am told," shrugged the older man carelessly.
He stood watching the dusty trail of the nomad with narrowed, thoughtful
eyes, unaware that his companion's eyes had wandered somewhat expectantly
to the Westfall lake.

"Baron Tregar!" whispered Ann Sherrill in a remote corner of the veranda
to a girl she had brought up to the farm with her late the night before.
"Has a _real_ air of distinction, hasn't he, Susanne? And such deep,
dark, _compelling_ eyes. Rather Arabic, I think, but mother says Magyar.
Dick says he's immensely interested in the war possibilities of
aeroplanes and fearfully patriotic. Touring the States, I believe. Dad
picked him up in Washington. Philip's teaching him to fly. Philip was
up once before, you know, in the spring and Dad urged him to come up
again and bring the Baron along to learn aeroplaning. Philip _Poynter_,
of course, the Baron's secretary!" in scandalized italics. "Didn't you
know, _really_? . . . _The_ Philip Poynter. . . . And I say it's
absolutely _sinful_ for a man to be so good-looking as long as the
world's monogamous."

"Quarreled with his father or something, didn't he?" asked Susanne
vaguely.

"Quarreled!" exclaimed Ann righteously. "Well, I should say he did. My