"I believe," said Diane disapprovingly, "that you were cutting giddy
circles over the water and dipping and skimming, weren't you?"

"I did cut a monkeyshine or two," admitted the young man. "I was
having a devil of a time until you--until the--er--catastrophe
occurred."

"And Miss Westfall, the owner," murmured Diane with sympathy, "is
addicted to firearms. Hadn't you heard? She _hunts_! The Westfalls
are all very erratic and quick-tempered. Didn't you know she was at
the farm?"

The young man looked exceedingly uncomfortable.

"Great guns, no!" he exclaimed. "I presumed she was safe in New
York. . . . And this is her lake and her water and her waves, when
there are any, and no matter how I engineer it, I've got to poach some
of her property. Some of it," he added conversationally, "is in my
shoe. Lord, I am in a pickle! Are you a guest of hers?"

"Yes," said Diane calmly.

"I'm staying over yonder on the hill there with Dick Sherrill," offered
the young man cordially. "They are opening their place with a party of
men, some crack amateur aviators--and myself. Do you know the
Sherrills?"

"Perhaps I do," said Diane discouragingly. "Why didn't you float about
and smoke on Mr. Sherrill's lake?" she added curiously. "It's ever so