"All the way?" said the policeman, incredulously. "Say, I thought that looked like your car standing out there by the road; but I says no, she ain't in town." He looked sharply at Nick, whose face had an Indian composure, though his feelings were mixed. "Who's this?" "He's a friend of mine. His name's Pan." She was drying her feet with an inadequate rose-coloured handkerchief. She crept crabwise up the bank, and put on her stockings and slippers. "Why'n't you come out and set on a bench?" suggested the policeman, worriedly. The girl shook her head. "In Arcadia we don't sit on benches. I should think you'd know that. Go on away, there's a dear. I want to talk to this--to Pan." He persisted. "What'd your pa say, I'd like to know!" The girl shrugged her shoulders. Nick made as though to rise. He was worried. A nut, that's what. She pressed him down again with a hard brown hand. "Now it's all right. He's going. Old Fuss!" The policeman stood a brief moment longer. Then the foliage rustled again. He was gone. The girl sighed, happily. "Play that thing some more, will you? You're a wiz at it, aren't you?" "I'm pretty good," said Nick, modestly. Then the outrageousness of her conduct struck him afresh. "Say, who're you, anyway?" "My name's Berry--short for Bernice.... What's yours, Pan?" "Nick--that is--Nick." "Ugh, terrible! I'll stick to Pan. What d'you do when you're not Panning?" Then, at the bewilderment in his face: "What's your job?" "I work in the Ideal Garage. Say, you're pretty nosey, ain't you?" "Yes, pretty.... That accounts for your nails, h'm?" She looked at her own brown paws. "'Bout as bad as mine. I drove one hundred and fifty miles to-day." "Ya-as, you did!" "I did! Started at six. And I'll probably drive back to-night." "You're crazy!" "I know it," she agreed, "and it's wonderful.... Can you play the Tommy Toddle?" "Yeh. It's kind of hard, though, where the runs are. I don't get the runs so very good." He played it. She kept time with head and feet. When he had finished and wiped his lips: "Elegant!" She took the harmonica from him, wiped it brazenly on the much-abused, rose-coloured handkerchief and began to play, her cheeks puffed out, her eyes round with effort. She played the Tommy Toddle, and her runs were perfect. Nick's chagrin was swallowed by his admiration and envy. "Say, kid, you got more wind than a factory whistle. Who learned you to play?" She struck her chest with a hard brown fist. "Tennis ... Tim taught me." "Who's Tim?" "The--a chauffeur." Nick leaned closer. "Say, do you ever go to the dances at Englewood Masonic Hall?" "I never have." "'Jah like to go some time?" "I'd love it." She grinned up at him, her teeth flashing white in her brown face. "It's swell here," he said, dreamily. "Like the woods?" "Yes." "Winter, when it's cold and dirty, I think about how it's here summers. It's like you could take it out of your head and look at it whenever you wanted to." "Endymion." "Huh?"