flirtation.

It was clear that she was out for a holiday. The seriousness and
restraints of twenty-two years she had left behind her in the
civilized world, and now, with a shrug of her young shoulders, she
unloosened her burden of reticence, dignity, and responsibility and
let the whole load fall with a discreet thud.

"Even hares go mad in March," she said, seriously. "I know you intend
to flirt with me--and I don't care. Anyway, there's nothing else to
do, is there?"

"Suppose," said I, solemnly, "I should take you behind that big tree
and attempt to kiss you!"

The prospect did not appear to appall her, so I looked around with
that sneaking yet conciliatory caution peculiar to young men who are
novices in the art. Before I had satisfied myself that neither William
nor the mules were observing us, Professor Van Twiller rose to her
feet and took a short step backward.

"Let's set traps for a dingue," she said, "will you?"

I looked at the big tree, undecided. "Come on," she said; "I'll show
you how." And away we went into the woods, she leading, her kilts
flashing through the golden half-light.

Now I had not the faintest notion how to trap the dingue, but
Professor Van Twiller asserted that it formerly fed on the tender tips
of the spruce, quoting Darwin as her authority.