"Wait a moment. I don't like that word 'snake' in connection with Miss Van Arsdale." "Though you're willing to accept it as applying to me. I believe you are trying to quarrel with me," accused Io. "I only meant that, being a woman, I can make a guess at what another woman would do in any given conditions. And she did it!" she concluded in triumph. "No; she didn't. Not in so many words. But you're very clever." "Say, rather, that _you_ are very stupid," was the disdainful retort. "So you're not going to fall in love with me?" "Of course not," answered Banneker in the most cheerfully commonplace of tones. Once embarked upon this primrose path, which is always an imperceptible but easy down-slope, Io went farther than she had intended. "Why not?" she challenged. "Brass buttons," said Banneker concisely. She flushed angrily. "You _can_ be rather a beast, can't you!" "A beast? Just for reminding you that the Atkinson and St. Philip station-agent at Manzanita does not include in his official duties that of presuming to fall in love with chance passengers who happen to be more or less in his care." "Very proper and official! Now," added the girl in a different manner, "let's stop talking nonsense, and do you tell me one thing honestly. Do you feel that it would be presumption?" "To fall in love with you?" "Leave that part of it out; I put my question stupidly. I'm really curious to know whether you feel any--any difference between your station and mine." "Do you?" "Yes; I do," she answered honestly, "when I think of it. But you make it very hard for me to remember it when I'm with you." "Well, I don't," he said. "I suppose I'm a socialist in all matters of that kind. Not that I've ever given much thought to them. You don't have to out here." "No; you wouldn't. I don't know that _you_ would have to anywhere.... Are we almost home?" "Three minutes' more walking. Tired?" "Not a bit. You know," she added, "I really would like it if you'd write me once in a while. There's something here I'd like to keep a hold on. It's tonic. I'll _make_ you write me." She flashed a smile at him. "How?" "By sending you books. You'll have to acknowledge them." "No. I couldn't take them. I'd have to send them back." "You wouldn't let me send you a book or two just as a friendly memento?" she cried, incredulous. "I don't take anything from anybody," he retorted doggedly. "Ah; that's small-minded," she accused. "That's ungenerous. I wouldn't think that of you." He strode along in moody thought for a few paces. Presently he turned to her a rigid face. "If you had ever had to accept food to keep you alive, you'd understand." For a moment she was shocked and sorry. Then her tact asserted itself. "But I have," she said readily, "all my life. Most of us do."