"Does Mr. Speed go in for that sort of thing?"

"Rather! The day we met at the Yale games he had medals all over
him, and that night at the dance he used the most wonderful
athletic language--we could scarcely understand him. Mr.
Covington must have told you all about him; they are chums, you
know."

Miss Chapin furrowed her brows meditatively.

"I have heard Culver speak of him, but never as an athlete. Have
you and Mr. Speed settled things between you, Helen? I mean, has
he--said anything?"

Miss Blake flushed.

"Not exactly." She adjusted a cushion to cover her confusion,
then leaned back complacently. "But he has stuttered dangerously
several times."

A musical tinkle of silver spurs sounded in the distance, and
around the corner of the cook-house opposite came Carara, the
Mexican, his wide, spangled sombrero tipped rakishly over one
ear, a corn-husk cigarette drooping from his lips. Evidently his
presence was inspired by some special motive, for he glanced
sharply about, and failing to detect the two girls behind the
distant screen of vines, removed his cigarette and whistled
thrice, like a quail, then, leaning against the adobe wall,
curled his black silken mustaches to needle-points.