Irene had shown selectiveness in the set for the scene. The path at that point was low-leaved and lone. Nothing broke the silence except the siren-chorus of invisible cars. Nothing marred the woodsy fragrances except the reek of gasoline. Nothing held Pape back except the realization that, once he had kissed this almost irresistible young lady of to-day—— At that, only Polkadot saved the situation. Whether intolerant of his propinquity with a mere hireling, whether sensing the predicament of a man-master who never had brushed stirrups with a woman unless on some picnic ride with a crowd along, or whether too fed-up on stable fodder to endure such inactivity one second longer, at any rate, the painted pony forewent all equine etiquette; bolted. Not until they had made a flying turn at Harlem Mere and started cross-park toward the West Path did Pape’s strong hand at the rein dictate that they let the trailing black catch up. When again the two horses, as nicely matched for contrast as were their riders, paced side by side in form—— “You all right, dar-rling?” panted Irene, from excitement and exercise beautiful as the favorite “still” of a picture queen. “Right as—as you nearly had me wrong.” At his serious look, she laughed up at him shamelessly. “You missed your chance that time. And a miss to me is as good as many miles.” “Don’t you mean,” he asked, “that a Miss is as bad as a Mrs.?” The rest of the ride he insisted on playing the heavy respectful. He wasn’t to be baby-vamped into making love to any girl; to that he had made up his mind flyingly but firmly. Tempting, indeed, was she. But until he should commit himself to temptation, she should not over-tempt him. Even in this, their “day and degeneration,” he claimed the deciding vote of the male. Why not? After that _he_ chose the topics of conversation, favoring one introduced that day by the girl’s own mother—genealogy. Irene’s answers were considerably less animated than his questions. Yes, “family” was the hobby-pace of her only mamma. She, herself, didn’t care a Russian kopeck from what a man came, so that he was present when she wanted him. Still, if Pape aspired to get along with parent-Helene, he’d have to trump her genealogical lead. Could he and would he produce a family escutcheon? If there was one to be had in town! So he promised with hand-on-heart. He had been born and bred and all that, he declared. And he had reasons for wishing to be properly installed as a friend of the Sturgis family. Would an escutcheon really need to be laid within range of the maternal lorgnette? If so, just what was an escutcheon most like?