“So it is. How do you know?” she asked, startled. 

 “From the hair. And your eyes have gold flashes in the brown when the sun touches them.” 

 “Your wits are your eyes. But where do you get such orchids?” 

 “From my little private garden underneath the rock.” 

 “Life will be a dull and dreary round unless I see that garden.” 

 “No! I say! Wait! Really, now, Miss—er—” There was panic in the protest. 

 “Oh, don’t be afraid. I’m only playing with your fears. One look at you as you chased your absurd spectacles was enough to satisfy my curiosity. Go in peace, startled fawn that you are.” 

 “Go nothing! I’m not going. Neither are you, I hope, until you’ve told me lots more about yourself.” 

 “All that for a spray of orchids?” 

 “But they are quite rare ones.” 

 “And very lovely.” 

 The girl mused, and a sudden impulse seized her to take the unseen acquaintance at his word and free her mind as she had not been able to do to any living soul for long weeks. She pondered over it. 

 “You aren’t getting ready to go?” he cried, alarmed at her long silence. 

 “No; I’m thinking.” 

 “Please think aloud.” 

 “I was thinking—suppose I did.” 

 There was so much of weighty consideration in her accents that the other fear again beset him. 

 “Did what? Not come down from the rock?” 

 “Be calm. I shouldn’t want to face you any more than you want to face me, if I decided to do it.” 

 “Go on,” he encouraged. “It sounds most promising.” 

 Prev. P 7/148 next