Once out of the city they were off at a brisk trot, talking a little now and then, but mostly busy with thoughts. They had seen so little of each other since Shirley’s return that a sense of having begun a new acquaintanceship hampered them both. They had not yet found common ground. "Now for the gallop," said Shirley, as they rounded a turn and came out upon a long, level stretch of road, with few vehicles in sight. "This is the spot where your sister lost most of her hairpins, when she took her first ride with me," said Peter, indicating to Grayback that a change of pace was in order. "I don’t think she ’d ever had such a dashing get-away before. Off, are you? Well, well, you do mean business, don’t you? All right, I ’m with you. But don’t expect me to recover the hairpins!" he called, as Grayback picked up the pace Pretty Polly had set. But both Pretty Polly and her rider were evidently on their mettle, and Grayback, bigger and longer of stride though he was, had to look to his heels to keep up with the little brown mare. Shirley proved a daring rider, and before she finally pulled Polly down to a canter she certainly had felt the wind in her face with a rush. When she looked round at Peter, as they entered the mile-long course of wood-shaded road which succeeded the turnpike, she met a brighter smile than she had seen on his face since she came home, two months before. Once more, for the moment, he looked the care-free boy again. "You may be a pupil of the riding-schools, but you ’ve taken plenty of road-training since," was his comment. "And not a hairpin loose, so far as I can see." "That’s because I always tie my mop with a ribbon for riding, like any schoolgirl. It’s childish, but comfortable. Is n’t this deliciously cool in here? And I ’ve forgotten all about the pothooks already." But having said this, Shirley bit her lip. She had not meant to tell yet. "Pothooks?" repeated Peter, curiously. "Have you been bothered by pothooks lately?" "A trifle." She turned away her head, and pointed out a fine clump of ferns, growing on a bank by the roadside. "Do you want them?" he asked. "No, no, not enough to get down for. I--said something I did n’t mean to, and the ferns offered a way of escape." Peter was silent, wondering what she could mean. Then Shirley said, frankly: "That sounds rude, and I ’m going to tell you." "Not because something slipped out. I won’t even guess at it, unless you want me to." "I do--now. I think I ’d like to tell you, though not even Nancy knows yet. My family do--but I don’t think even they quite realise what it means to me. Perhaps you would." "I ’d like to try." "I--have begun to study stenography," said Shirley. "When I’ve learned it--and typewriting--thoroughly, I ’m to have a place in Murray’s office." She said it with her eyes looking straight between her horse’s ears; and she did not see the quick, astonished glance which fell upon her.