"And I'm afraid I'm going to make you trouble. But you brought it upon yourself." "By interfering. Exactly. How old are you?" "Twenty." "Good Heavens! You have the aplomb of fifty." "Experience," smiled the girl, flattered. "And the recklessness of fifteen." "I abide by the rules of the game. And when I find myself--well, out of bounds, I make my own rules." Miss Van Arsdale shook her firmly poised head. "It won't do. The rules are the same everywhere, for honorable people." "Honorable!" There was a flash of resentful pride as the girl turned in the saddle to face her companion. "I have no intention of preaching at you or of questioning you," continued the calm, assured voice. "If you are looking for sanctuary"--the fine lips smiled slightly--"though I'm sure I can't see why you should need it, this is the place. But there are rules of sanctuary, also." "I suppose," surmised the girl, "you want to know why I don't go back into the world at once." "No." "Then I'll tell you." "As you wish." "I came West to be married." "To Delavan Eyre?" Again the dun pony jumped, this time because a sudden involuntary contraction of his rider's muscles had startled him. "What do you know of Delavan Eyre, Miss Van Arsdale?" "I occasionally see a New York newspaper." "Then you know who I am, too?" "Yes. You are the pet of the society column paragraphers; the famous 'Io' Welland." She spoke with a curious intonation. "Ah, you read the society news?" "With a qualmish stomach. I see the names of those whom I used to know advertising themselves in the papers as if they had a shaving-soap or a chewing-gum to sell." "Part of the game," returned the girl airily. "The newcomers, the climbers, would give their souls to get the place in print that we get without an effort." "Doesn't it seem to you a bit vulgar?" asked the other. "Perhaps. But it's the way the game is played nowadays." "With counters which you have let the parvenues establish for you. In my day we tried to keep out of the papers." "Clever of you," approved the girl. "The more you try to keep out, the more eager the papers are to print your picture. They're crazy over exclusiveness," she laughed. "Speculation, pro and con, as to who is going to marry whom, and who is about to divorce whom, and whether Miss Welland's engagement to Mr. Eyre is authentic, 'as announced exclusively in this column'--more exclusiveness--; or whether--" "It wasn't Del Eyre that I came out here to marry." "No?" "No. It's Carter Holmesley. Of course you know about him." "By advertisement, also; the society-column kind." "Really, you know, he couldn't keep out of the papers. He hates it with all his British soul. But being what he is, a prospective duke, an international poloist, and all that sort of thing, the reporters naturally swarm to him. Columns and columns; more pictures than a popular _danseuse_. And all without his lifting his hand."