"And is your name Beecham?" he interrupted, anxious to avoid the subject of
Fleming County.

"My name is Landis," she answered. "Marjorie Landis. Is Fleming County very
large?"

"No--no. Not very large. And where did you live before you came here?"

"With mother." It seemed to be her turn for evasion. "I presume," she
continued, "that you know all the people in the county?"

He wondered if, by some chance, she knew people there, if she was going to
pin him down to persons and definite places in Fleming County.

"No, indeed," he answered. "You see, I haven't been there all the time."

"I never was very good at geography," she began apologetically. "Where is
Fleming County?"

"Oh, it is in the southern part of the state," he said. He decided to study
the first map he could get his hands upon.

"Let's do as we used to do in school," she said. "Bound Fleming County for
me."

Tom decided that he hated all girls, and Miss Marjorie Landis in
particular. She had trapped him, easily and pleasantly.

He forced himself to laugh, and the laugh sounded mirthlessly in his ears.