she certainly was beautiful--and as healthy and hardy as if she
had never before been away from the high, wind-swept plateaus
where disease is unknown and where nothing is thought of living
to be a hundred or a hundred and twenty-five. Both before and
after the introduction Davy Hull gazed at her with fascinated
curiosity too plainly written upon his long, sallow, serious
face. She, intent upon her mission, ignored him as the arrow
ignores the other birds of the flock in its flight to the one at
which it is aimed.

``You'll give me a minute or two alone?'' she said to Jane. ``We
can walk on the lawn here.''

Hull caught up his hat. ``I was just going,'' said he. Then he
hesitated, looked at Selma, stammered: ``I'll go to the edge of
the lawn and inspect the view.''

Neither girl noted this abrupt and absurd change of plan. He
departed. As soon as he had gone half a dozen steps, Selma said
in her quick, direct fashion:

``I've come to see you about the strike.''

Jane tried to look cool and reserved. But that sort of
expression seemed foolish in face of the simplicity and candor of
Selma Gordon. Also, Jane was not now so well pleased with her
father's ideas and those of her own interest as she had been
while she was talking with him. The most exasperating thing
about the truth is that, once one has begun to see it--has begun
to see what is for him the truth--the honest truth--he can not