had vanished. And his soul was tremulous, for she had done her work but
too well.

"'Indifferink'!" he murmured, thrilling at his own exceedingly
indifferent imitation of her voice. "Indifferink!" that was just what he
would have her think--that he was a cold, indifferent man. It was what
he wished all girls to think. And "sarcastic"! He had been envious one
day when May Parcher said that Joe Bullitt was "awfully sarcastic."
William had spent the ensuing hour in an object-lesson intended to make
Miss Parcher see that William Sylvanus Baxter was twice as sarcastic
as Joe Bullitt ever thought of being, but this great effort had been
unsuccessful, because William, failed to understand that Miss Parcher
had only been sending a sort of message to Mr. Bullitt. It was a device
not unique among her sex; her hope was that William would repeat her
remark in such a manner that Joe Bullitt would hear it and call to
inquire what she meant.

"'SO indifferink'!" murmured William, leaning dreamily upon the
gate-post. "Indifferink!" He tried to get the exact cooing quality of
the unknown's voice. "Indifferink!" And, repeating the honeyed word, so
entrancingly distorted, he fell into a kind of stupor; vague, beautiful
pictures rising before him, the one least blurred being of himself, on
horseback, sweeping between Flopit and a racing automobile. And
then, having restored the little animal to its mistress, William
sat carelessly in the saddle (he had the Guardsman's seat) while the
perfectly trained steed wheeled about, forelegs in the air, preparing
to go. "But shall I not see you again, to thank you more properly?" she
cried, pleading. "Some other day--perhaps," he answered.

And left her in a cloud of dust.