LITMIR.BIZ

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already!”

      “Do you mind if I try him?” suggested Siward.

      “You mean that you are going to let him run?”

      “I think so.”

      “And if he bolts?”

      “I’ll take my chances.”

      “Yes, but please consider my chances, Mr. Siward. The dog doesn’t belong to me.”

      “But he ought to run—”

      “But suppose he runs away? He’s a horridly expensive creature—if you care to take the risk.”

      “I’ll take the risk,” said Siward, smiling as she drew rein. “Now Flynn, give me the leash. Quiet! Quiet, puppy! Everything is coming your way; that’s the beauty of patience; great thing, patience!” He took the leader; the dog sprang from the rumble. “Now, my friend, look at me! No, don’t twist and squirm and scramble; look me square in the eye; so!… Now we know each ether and we respect each other—because you are going to be a good puppy… and obey… Down charge!”

      The dog, trembling with eager comprehension, dropped like a shot, muzzle laid flat between his paws. Siward unleashed him, looked down at him for a second, stooped and caressed the silky head, then with a laugh swung himself into the phaeton beside the driver, who, pretty head turned, had been looking on intently.

      “Your dog is yard-broken,” he said. “Look at him.”

      “I see. Do you think he will follow us?”

      “I think so.”

      The horse started, Miss Landis looking back over her shoulder at the dog who lay motionless, crouched flat in the road.

      Then Siward turned. “Come on, Sagamore!” he said gaily; and the dog sprang forward, circled about the moving phaeton, splitting the air with yelps of ecstasy, then tore ahead, mad with the delight of stretching cramped muscles amid the long rank grass and shrubbery of the roadside.

      The girl watched him doubtfully; when he disappeared far away up the road she turned the blue inquiry of her eyes on Siward.

      “He’ll be back,” said the young fellow, laughing; and presently the dog reappeared on a tearing gallop, white flag tossing, glorious in his new liberty, enchanted with the confidence this tall young man had reposed in him—this adorable young man, this wonderful friend who had suddenly appeared to release him from an undignified and abominable situation in a crate.

      “A good dog,” said Siward; and the girl looked around at him, partly because his voice was pleasant, partly because a vague memory was beginning to stir within her, coupling something unpleasant with the name of Siward.

      She had been conscious of it when he first named himself, but, absorbed in the overwhelming importance of her telegram, had left the analysis of the matter for the future.

      She thought again of her telegram, theorised a little, came to no conclusion except to let the matter rest for the present, and mentally turned to the next and far less important problem—the question of this rather attractive young man at her side, and why the name of Siward should be linked in her mind with anything disagreeable.

      Tentatively following the elusive mental dews that might awaken something definite concerning her hazy impression of the man beside her, she spoke pleasantly, conventionally, touching idly any topic that might have a bearing; and, under a self-possession so detached as to give an impression of indifference, eyes, ears, and intelligence admitted that he was agreeable to look at, pleasant of voice, and difficult to reconcile with anything unpleasant.

      Which gradually aroused her interest—the incongruous usually interesting girls of her age—for he had wit enough to amuse her, sufficient inconsequence to please her, and something listless, at times almost absent-minded, almost inattentive, that might have piqued her had it not inoculated her, as it always does any woman, with the nascent germ of curiosity. Besides, there was, in the hint of his momentary preoccupation, a certain charm.

      They discussed shooting and the opening of the season; dogs and the training of dogs; and why some go gun-shy and why some ace blinkers. From sport and its justification, they became inconsequential; and she was beginning to enjoy the freshness of their chance acquaintance, his nice attitude toward things, his irrelevancy, his gaiety.

      Laughter thawed her; for notwithstanding the fearless confidence she had been taught for men of her own kind, self-possession and reserve, if not inherent, had also been drilled into her, and she required a great deal in a man before she paid him the tribute of one of her pretty laughs.

      Apparently they were advancing rather rapidly.

      “Don’t you think we ought to call the dog in, Mr. Siward?”

      “Yes; he’s had enough!”

      She drew rein; he sprang out and whistled; and the Sagamore pup, dusty and happy came romping back. Siward motioned him to the rumble, but the dog leaped to the front.

      “I don’t mind,” said the girl. “Let him sit here between us. And you might occupy yourself by pulling some of those burrs from his ears—if you will?”

      “Of course I will. Look up here, puppy! No! Don’t try to lick my face, for that is bad manners. Demonstrations are odious, as the poet says.”

      “It’s always bad manners, isn’t it?” asked Miss Landis.

      “What? Being affectionate?”

      “Yes, and admitting it.”

      “I believe it is. Do you hear that—Sagamore? But never mind; I’ll break the rules some day when we’re alone.”

      The dog laid one paw on Siward’s knee, looking him wistfully in the eyes.

      “More demonstrations,” observed the girl. “Mr. Siward! You are hugging him! This amounts to a dual conspiracy in bad manners.”

      “Awfully glad to admit you to the conspiracy,” he said. “There’s one vacancy—if you are eligible.”

      “I am; I was discovered recently kissing my saddle-mare.”

      “That settles it! Sagamore, give the young lady the grip.”

      Sylvia Landis glanced at the dog, then impulsively shifting the whip to her left hand, held out the right. And very gravely the Sagamore pup laid one paw in her dainty white gloved palm.

      “You darling!” murmured the girl, resuming her whip.

      “I notice,” observed Siward, “that you are perfectly qualified for membership in our association for the promotion of bad manners. In fact I should suggest you for the presidency—”

      “I suppose you think all sorts of things because I gushed over that dog.”

      “Of course I do.”

      “Well you need not,” she rejoined, delicate nose up-tilted. “I never kissed a baby in all my life—and never mean to. Which is probably more than you can say.”

      “Yes, its more than I can say.

      “That admission elects you president,” she concluded. But after a moment’s silent driving she turned partly toward him with mock seriousness: “Is it not horridly unnatural in me to feel that way about babies? And about people, too; I simply cannot endure demonstrations. As for dogs and horses—well, I’ve admitted how I behave; and, being so shamelessly affectionate by disposition, why can’t I be nice to babies? I’ve a hazy but dreadful notion that there’s something wrong about me, Mr. Siward.”

      He scrutinised the pretty features, anxiously; “I can’t see it,” he said.

      “But I mean it—almost seriously. I don’t want to be so aloof, but—I don’t like to touch other people. It is rather horrid of me I suppose to be like those silky, plumy, luxurious Angora cats who never are civil to you and who always jump out of your arms at the first opportunity.”

      He laughed—and there was malice in his eyes, but he did not know her well enough to pursue the subject through so easy an opening.

      It

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