I AM a loathsome person at times,” she informed him; “and to-night I was rather worse than usual.” “I do dance like a--locomotive,” involuntarily. “It doesn't matter how you dance,” she proceeded, “and you mustn't repeat it, it isn't generous.” Suddenly she laughed uncontrollably. “You looked so uncomfortable... your collar,” it was lost in a bubbling, silvery peal. “Forgive me,” she gasped. “I don't mind,” he assured her. All at once he didn't; the sting had vanished from his pride; he smiled. He saw that she wore a honey-colored dress, with a strand of pearls about her slim throat, and that her feet, in satin, were even smaller than Ellie's. Her hair resembled more a crown of light than the customary adornment. “I didn't want to come,” he confided: “I hate, well--going out, dancing.” “It doesn't suit you,” she admitted frankly; “you are so splendidly bronzed and strong; you need,” she paused, “lots of room.” For this Anthony had no adequate reply. “I have this with some one,” she declared as the music recommenced, “but I hope they don't find me; I hate it for the moment... I'll show you a place; it's very wicked of me.” She rose and, waving him to follow, slipped over the grass. Beyond the house she stopped in the shadowy vista of a pergola; vines shut out the stars, walled them in a virid, still gloom. She sank on a low stone bench, and he found the grass at her feet. A mantle of fine romance descended upon his shoulders, of subtile adventure, prodigious daring. Immaculate men, pearl-studded, were searching for her, and she had hidden herself from them with him. A new and pleasant sense of importance warmed him, flattered his self-esteem. He felt strangely at ease, and sat in silent contentment. The faint sound of violins, a burst of distant laughter, floated to him. “It seems as if the world were rushing on, out there, without us,” Eliza finally broke the silence, “as if they were keeping a furious pace, while we sat in some everlasting, quiet wood, like Fontainebleau. Don't you adore nature?” “I knock about a lot outside,” he admitted cautiously, “often I stay out all night, by the Wingohocking Creek. There's a sort of cave where you can hear the falls, and the owls hunting about. I cook things in clay--fish, chickens,” he paused abruptly at the latter item, recalling the questionable source of his supply. “In winter I shoot rabbits with Bert Woods, he's a barber, and Doctor Allhop, you know--the druggist.” “I am sure that your friends are very nice,” she promptly assured him. “Bert's crazy about girls,” he remarked, half contemptuously. “And you... don't care for them?” “I don't know anything about them,” he admitted with an abrupt, unconscious honesty. “But there must have been--there must be--one,” she persisted. She leaned forward, and he met her gaze with unwavering candor. “Not that many,” he returned.