As they drew near the spring, Sylvia began to be uneasy again. She did not want him to lose her; she wanted him to care. She stopped to breathe her horse, and to look at the moss-ringed pool of water, and at the field of golden-rod beyond. “How lovely!” she said; and repeated, “How lovely!” He never said a word—and when he might so easily have said, “Let us stay a while!” She was growing desperate. Her horse had got its breath and had had some water—what else? “I must have some of that golden-rod!” she exclaimed, suddenly. What was the matter with him, staring into space in that fashion? Had he no manners at all? “I must have some golden-rod,” she repeated; and when he still made no move, she said, “Hold my horse, please,” and started to dismount. He sprang off, and took the reins of her horse, and those of his own in the same hand, giving his other hand to her. It was the first time he had touched her, and it sent a shock through her that sent her flying in a panic—out into the field of flowers, where she could hide her cheeks and her trembling! § 16 He made the horses fast to the fence, carefully and deliberately; and meantime she was gathering golden-rod. She knew that she made a picture in the midst of flowers. She was very much occupied as he came to her side. A moment later she heard his voice: “Miss Castleman.” Panic seized her again, but she looked up, with her last flicker of courage. “Well?” she asked. “There is something I want to tell you,” he began. “I can’t play this game with you—I am no match for you at all.” “Why—what do you mean?” she managed to say. As usual, she knew just what he meant. “I am not a man who can play with his emotions,” he said. “You must understand this at the very outset—the thing is real to me, and I’ve got to know quickly whether or not it is real to you.” There he was! Like a storm of wind that threatened to sweep away her pretenses, the whole pitiful little structure of her coquetry. But she could not let the structure go; it was her only shelter, and she strove desperately to hold it in place. “Why should you assume that I play with my emotions?” she demanded. “You play, not with your own, but with other peoples’ emotions,” he replied. “I know; I’ve heard about you—long ago.” She drew herself up haughtily. “You do not approve of me, Mr. Shirley? I’m very sorry.” “You must know—” he began. But she went on, in a rush of defensive recklessness: “You think I’m hollow—a coquette—a trifler with hearts. Well, I am. It’s all I know.” She flung her head up, looking at him defiantly. “No, Miss Castleman,” he said, “it’s _not_ all you know!” But her recklessness was driving her—that spirit of the gambler that was in the blood of all her race. “It _is_ all I know.” She bent over and began strenuously to pluck sprays of golden-rod. “To break men’s hearts?” he asked.