“That I know.” 

 “Know what?” 

 “About him. I shan’t ever take the chances of calling on you now.” 

 She laughed. 

 “He wouldn’t put you out unless I told him to,” she said. “You needn’t be too afraid of him, you know.” 

 His face grew a trifle flushed. 

 “I’m not afraid,” he said, as coldly as it was in him to speak; “but I’ll leave him the field.” 

 She turned and looked at him. 

 “The field?” she asked, with puzzled eyebrows. 

 “Yes.” 

 Then she frowned for an instant, and then a species of thought-ray suddenly flew across her face and she burst out laughing. 

 “Why, I do believe,” she cried merrily, “I do believe you’re jealous of the man at the door.” 

 “Weren’t you speaking of a man in the drawing-room?” he asked, all her phrases recurring to his mind together. 

 “No,” she said laughing; “I was speaking of my footman. Oh, you are so funny.” 

 The way the sun shone suddenly again! His horizon glowed so madly that he quite lost his head and leaning quickly downward seized her hand in its little tan driving glove of stitched dogskin, and kissed it—reins and all. 

 “I’m not funny,” he said, “it was the most natural thing in the world.” 

 She was laughing, but she curbed it. 

 “You’d better not be foolish,” she said warningly. “It don’t mix well with college.” 

 “I’m thinking of cutting college,” he declared boldly. 

 Prev. P 31/184 next