Perhaps he had been up late the night before. Maybe he had a headache. His handsome face was certainly very sober. There was a silent appeal to her in that blond head, a little over half-a-head above hers. Miss Gwendoline’s red lips softened. What a great, big, nice-looking boy he was, after all! She let the lights of her eyes play on him more kindly. She had always thought Bob a good sort. He was an excellent partner in tennis and when it came to horses—they had certainly had some great spurts together. She had tried to follow Bob but it had sometimes been hard. His “jumps” were famous. What he couldn’t put a horse over, no one else could. For the sake of these and a few kindred recollections, she softened. “I suppose men sometimes do feel that way the next day,” she observed with tentative sympathy. One just had to forgive Bob. She knew a lot of cleverer men who weren’t half so interesting on certain occasions. Intellectual conversation isn’t everything. Even that soul-to-soul talk of the higher faddists sometimes palled. “I suppose that’s why you’re walking.” “Why?” he repeated, puzzled. “To dissipate that ‘tired feeling,’ I believe you call it?” “But I’m not tired,” said Bob. “Headachey, then?” “No.” He wasn’t quite following the subtleties of her remarks. “Then why _are_ you walking?” she persisted. “And with that?” Touching his grip with the tip of her toe. “Save hack fare,” answered Bob. She smiled. “Man wanted a dollar and a half,” he went on. “And you objected?” Lightly. “I did.” Again she smiled. Bob saw she, too, thought it was a joke. And he remembered how she knew of one or two occasions when he had just thrown money to the winds—shoved it out of the window, as it were—orchids, by the dozens, tips, two or three times too large, etc. Bob, with those reckless eyes, object to a dollar and a half—or a hundred and fifty, for that matter? Not he! If ever there had been a spendthrift!— “Well, I’ll lend a hand to a poor, poverty-stricken wretch,” said Miss Gerald, indulgently entering into the humor of the situation. “What do you mean?” With new misgivings. “Put them”—indicating the grip and the sticks—“in the trap,” she commanded. Bob did. He couldn’t do anything else. And then he assisted her in. “Thanks for timely help!” he said more blithely, as he saw her slip on her gloves and begin to gather up the reins with those firm capable fingers. “And now—?” He started as if to go. “Oh, you can get in, too.” Why shouldn’t he? There was room for two. She spoke in a matter-of-fact manner.