over the road.’ I could tell by the way you took hold.”

[34]

“Took hold!” cried he.

“That’s it—took hold—made me like you—made me interested in you.”

He looked uncomfortable—glanced at his watch.

“Oh, so much has happened to you. And nothing has ever happened to me—nothing but this,” she sighed.

“But this!” laughed he. “Don’t you call it something—to be clandestinely an artist’s model? Think how horrified your prim, proper, pious people would be if they knew!”

“What kind of people do you think I come from?” she inquired, gazing at him quizzically.

“That’s tabooed,” he answered. “I’ve never speculated about it. When your canoe rounds that bend yonder I never follow. You begin and end at the bend.”

“I don’t see how you can help wondering,” mused she. “I wonder a great deal about you. Not that I want to know. I’d rather wonder—fancy it as I please—differently every day. You see, I haven’t much to think about—much that’s interesting. Honestly, don’t you wonder—at all—about me?”

“I’ve always been that way about my friends,” replied[35] he, and went on to explain sincerely: “They interest me only as they appear to me. Why should I bother about what they are to other people—people I don’t know and don’t care to know?”

[35]

“Isn’t that strange!” mused she. “Do you really mean it?” She blushed, hastily added: “Of course, I know you mean it. You mustn’t mind my saying that. You see, the people I know are entirely different. That’s why I feel this is all—unreal—a dream.... You honestly don’t care about wealth—and social position—and all that? Not a bit?”

“Why should I?” said he indifferently. “It isn’t in my game—and one cares only about the things that are in his game.”

“That other game—it seems a very poor sort to you, doesn’t it?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

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