"He didn't need to spoil a perfectly good fifty-dollar bill, though," admitted Clay. "Yes, he did," denied Beatrice. "That was his protest against Clarendon's misjudgment of him. I've always thought it perfectly splendid in its insolence. Some day I'm going to tell him so." "It happened in your corner of Arizona, Lindsay. If you ever find out who the chap was I wish you'd let us know," Whitford said. "I'll remember." "If you young people are going riding--" "--We'd better get started. Quite right, Dad. We're off. Clarendon will probably call up. Tell him I'll be in about four-thirty." She pinched her father's ear, kissed him on one ruddy cheek, then on the other, and joined Clay at the door. They were friends again, had been for almost half an hour, even though they had not yet been alone together, but their friendship was to hold reservations now. The shadow of Clarendon Bromfield rode between them. They were a little stiff with each other, not so casual as they had been. A consciousness of sex had obtruded into the old boyish _camaraderie_. After a brisk canter they drew their horses together for a walk. Beatrice broke the ice of their commonplaces. She looked directly at him, her cheeks flushing. "I don't know how you're going to forgive me, Clay. I've been awf'ly small and priggish. I hate to think I'm ungenerous, but that's just what I've been." "Let's forget it," he said gently. "No, I don't want to forget--not till I've told you how humble I feel to-day. I might have trusted you. Why didn't I? It would have been easy for me to have taken your little friend in and made things right for her. That's what I ought to have done. But, instead of that--Oh, I hate myself for the way I acted." Her troubled smile, grave and sweet, touched him closely. It was in his horoscope that the spell of this young Diana must be upon him. He put his hand on hers as it rested on the pommel of the saddle and gave it a slight pressure. "You're a good scout, li'l' pardner." But it was Beatrice's way to step up to punishment and take what was coming. As a little girl, while still almost a baby, she had once walked up to her mother, eyes flashing with spirit, and pronounced judgment on herself. "I've tum to be spanked. I broke Claire's doll an' I'm glad of it, mean old fing. So there!" Now she was not going to let the subject drop until she had freed her soul. "No, Clay, I've been a poor sportsman. When my friend needed me I failed him. It hurts me, because--oh, you know. When the test came I wasn't there. One hates to be a quitter." Her humility distressed him, though he loved the spirit of her apology. "It's all right, Bee. Don't you worry. All friends misunderstand each other, but the real ones clear things up." She had not yet told him the whole truth and she meant to make clean confession.