“Oh!” She considered. Then: “I’ve been to the Yellowstone. It was there—that we met? I begin—to remember that——” “That I’m a personal friend of Horace Albright, the superintendent,” he supplied, quick to seize the opportunity she had made to speak a true, good word for himself. “Every one of the Spread-Eagle Ranger force, from Jim McBride down, calls me by my first name, so you see that I am no tusk-hunter. You can’t have forgotten the snap of the air on those early-morning Y-stone rides or the colors of the border peaks in the afternoon sun or——” “Or the spray of Old Faithful, the painted colors of the cañon, the whole life of the wild. Never. Never,” she contributed. “I was fascinated with the breadth and freedom of your West. Out there I felt like Alice in Wonderland, with everything possible.” His eyes reproached her. “Everything is possible everywhere, even in your narrow, circumscribed East. I am glad that you remember the worth-while things. Perhaps, if you try——” “Jane dar-rling, do you want to sit brazenly in front or modestly in back for the second act? That first was enough to put the Mona Lisa out of countenance. But I’ve heard that a little child saves the second.” The interruption came from the bobbed-haired girl, who, from her repeated glances their way, evidently thought their aside somewhat protracted. So “Jane” was the favorite, old-fashioned name she glorified! Pape was further thrilled by the touch of her hand on his arm. “Do forgive me and help me out,” she said low and hurriedly. “Some hypnotist must have given me mental suggestion that I was to forget names. I am constantly embarrassed by lapses like this. Quick—I’ll have to introduce you.” “Peter Pape.” Gladly he supplied the lack. With considerable poise she announced him as “a friend from the Yellowstone,” who had happened in unexpectedly and been reviving memories of that most delightful summer she had spent in the West. If she accented ever so slightly the “revived memories” or flashed him a confused look with the pronouncement of his name, none but he noticed. And he did not care. Whether deceived by his high-handed play or playing a higher hand herself, she hadn’t thrown him out. Now she wouldn’t—couldn’t. He was her “friend” from the Yellowstone—near enough home, at that, since Hellroaring Valley was right next door. She was committed to his commitment. His theory was proving beyond anything he could have hoped, had he wasted time on hope after evolving it. In turn she named Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Allen, a middle-aged couple who supplied ample dignity and chaperonage for the younger element of the box party; Mr. Mills Harford, a genial, sophisticated and well-built young man, who would have been called handsome by one with a taste for auburn hair, brown eyes and close-cropped mustaches; Miss Sturgis, her little cousin—she of the bobbed hair, filet of pearls and affectionate address.