Portlaw shook his head violently, and passed his gloved hand over his eyes as though to rouse himself from a distressing dream; all of which expressive pantomime was lost on Mrs. Ascott, who was busy driving tacks. "I simply cannot credit my senses," he said mournfully. "You ought to try; it will be still more difficult later," she observed, backing her horse so that she might inspect her handiwork from the proper point of view. Portlaw looked askance at the sign. It warned people not to shoot, fish, cut trees, dam streams, or build fires under penalty of the law; and was signed, "Alida Ascott." "You didn't have any up before, did you?" he asked innocently. "By advice of counsel I think I had better not reply, Mr. Portlaw. But I believe that point will be brought out by my lawyers--unless"--with a brilliant smile--"your own counsel sees fit to discuss it." Portlaw was convinced that his hair was stirring under his cap. He was horribly afraid of the law. "See here, Alida," he said, assuming the bluff rough-diamond front which the alarm in his eyes made foolish, "I want to settle this little difference and be friends with you again. I was wrong; I admit it.... Of course I might very easily defend such a suit--" "But, of course"--serenely undeceived--"as you admit you are in the wrong you will scarcely venture to defend such a suit. _Your_ lawyers ought to forbid _you_ to talk about this case, particularly"--with a demure smile--"to the plaintiff." "Alida," he said, "I am determined to remain your friend. You may do what you will, say what you wish, yes, even use my own words against me, but"--and virtue fairly exuded from every perspiring pore--"I will not retaliate!" "I'm afraid you can't, William," she said softly. "Won't you--forgive?" he asked in a melting voice; but his eyes were round with apprehension. "There are some things that no woman can overlook," she said. "I'll send my men down to fix that bridge--" "Bridges can be mended; I was not speaking of the bridge." "You mean those sheep--" "No, Mr. Portlaw." "Well, there's a lot--I mean that some little sand has been washed over your meadow--" "Good night," she said, turning her horse's head. "Isn't it the sand, Alida?" he pleaded. "You surely will forgive that timber-cutting--and the shooting of a few migratory birds--" "Good night," touching her gray mare forward to where he was awkwardly blocking the wood-path.... "Do you mind moving a trifle, Mr. Portlaw?" "About--ah--the--down there, you know, at Palm Beach," he stammered, "at that accursed lawn-party--" "Yes?" She smiled but her eyes harboured lightning. "It was so hot in Florida--you know how infernally hot it was, don't you, Alida?" he asked beseechingly. "I scarcely dared leave the Beach Club." "Well?" "I--I thought I'd just m-m-mention it. That's why I didn't call on you--I was afraid of sunstroke--" "What!" she exclaimed, astonished at his stuttering audacity.