She had made progress; she felt much satisfaction. "You are not a native," she said. "How do you know?" "Cowboys do not commonly measure their distances with parasangs," she laughed. "Nor do ordinary women try to shake off ennui by coming West in private cars," he drawled. She started and looking quickly at him. "How did you know that was what happened to me?" she demanded. "Because you're too spirited and vigorous to spend your life dawdling in society. You yearn for action, for the broad, free life of the open. You're in love with this country right now." "Yes, yes," she said, astonished; "but how do you know?" "You might have sent a man here in your place--Braman, for instance; he could be trusted. You came yourself, eager for adventure--you came on a borrowed horse. When you were looking at the country from the horse in front of my house, I saw you sigh." "Well," she said, with flushed face and glowing eyes; "I _have_ decided to live out here--for a time, at least. So you were watching me?" "Just a glance," he defended, grinning; "I couldn't help it. Please forgive me." "I suppose I'll have to," she laughed, delighted, reveling in this freedom of speech, in his directness. His manner touched a spark somewhere in her, she felt strangely elated, exhilarated. When she reflected that this was only their second meeting and that she had not been conventionally introduced to him, she was amazed. Had a stranger of her set talked to her so familiarly she would have resented it. Out here it seemed to be perfectly natural. "How do you know I borrowed a horse to come here?" she asked. "That's easy," he grinned; "there's the Diamond K brand on his hip." "Oh." They rode on a little distance in silence, and then she remembered that she was still curious about him. His frankness had affected her; she did not think it impertinent to betray curiosity. "How long have you lived out here?" she asked. "About ten years." "You weren't born here, of course--you have admitted that. Then where did you come from?" "This is a large country," he returned, unsmilingly. It was a reproof, certainly--Rosalind could go no farther in that direction. But her words had brought a mystery into existence, thus sharpening her interest in him. She was conscious, though, of a slight pique--what possible reason could he have for evasion? He had not the appearance of a fugitive from justice. "So you're going to live out here?" he said, after an interval. "Where?" "I heard father speak of buying Blakeley's place. Do you know where it is?"