She reached the spring quite out of breath, and she actually bumped into a man who stood carefully rinsing a bloodstained handkerchief under the overflow from the horse trough. She gave a little scream, and the pail went rolling noisily down the steep bank and lay on its side in the mud. Kent turned and looked at her, himself rather startled by the unexpected collision. Involuntarily he threw out his hand to steady her. “How do you do, Mrs. Fleetwood?” he said, with all the composure he could muster to his aid. “I'm afraid I scared you. My nose got to bleeding--with the heat, I guess. I just now managed to stop it.” He did not consider it necessary to explain his presence, but he did feel that talking would help her recover her breath and her color. “It's a plumb nuisance to have the nosebleed so much,” he added plaintively. Val was still trembling and staring at him with her odd, yellow-brown eyes. He glanced at her swiftly, and then bent to squeeze the water from his handkerchief; but his trained eyes saw her in all her dainty allurement; saw how the coppery sunlight gave a strange glint to her hair, and how her eyes almost matched it in color, and how the pupils had widened with fright. He saw, too, something wistful in her face, as though life was none too kind to her, and she had not yet abandoned her first sensation of pained surprise that it should treat her so. “That's what I get for running,” she said, still panting a little as she watched him. “I thought all the men were at the table, you see. Your dinner will be cold, Mr. Burnett.” Kent was a bit surprised at the absence of cold hauteur in her manner; his memory of her had been so different. “Well, I'm used to cold grub,” he smiled over his shoulder. “And, anyway, when your nose gets to acting up with you, it's like riding a pitching horse; you've got to pass up everything and give it all your time and attention.” Then, with the daring that sometimes possessed him like a devil, he looked straight at her. “Sure you intend to give me my dinner?” he quizzed, his lips' lifting humorously at the corners. “I kinda thought, from the way you turned me down cold when we met before, you'd shut your door in my face if I came pestering around. How _about_ that?” Little flames of light nickered in her eyes. “You are the guest of my husband, here by his invitation,” she answered him coldly. “Of course I shall give you your dinner, if you want any.” He inspected his handkerchief critically, decided that it was not quite clean, and held it again under the stream of water. “If I want it--yes,” he drawled maliciously. “Maybe I'm not sure about that part. Are you a pretty fair cook?” “Perhaps you'd better interview your friends,” she retorted, “if you are so very fastidious. I--” She drew her brows together, as if she was in doubt as to the proper method of dealing with this impertinence. She suspected that he was teasing her purposely, but still--