He looked at her furtively. She was in profile. He looked again, to be sure that it was not memory, but the breathing girl herself. Yes, for a fact, it was the girl herself. And here was her own queenly head, here its regal poise, here the superb line of the neck to the shoulder. Reverence grew on admiration, for as he gazed he beheld her character revealed, of lines as stately, as womanly, and withal as flexible, too, before the cheery glow of each moment's life. He stirred, and was vaguely restive, and perhaps a little frightened also, because of the deep mystery of something within himself which he could not understand. The classic outline of her features was softened now in the warmth of flesh. Her vivacity was off guard, in the forgetfulness of reverie. The pure white of the little tip of ear was tinged with pink. Her eyes were lowered to the saddle horn. They were melting. They were almost blue. "Jack'leen!" He burst out fervently, before he thought, with an arm half lifted toward her. The drooping lashes raised. The eyes were gray again. She regarded him for awhile without speaking. "Why don't you quarrel?" she asked finally. The spell was broken. Her pounding heart had vent in a nervous laugh of raillery. She touched her horse with the riding crop in her gauntleted hand. Somehow she would not leave that dumb brute, the horse, in peace. Driscoll's old Demijohn, however, was used to the game by now. He pointed his ears, and checkmated that last move by bringing his master once more to the lady's side. "You used to," she went on, as though there had been no interruption, "nicely. You were of an interest then. In fact, I reck-_on_--I know no one that I had rather have quarreled with." But still he would not, though that "reckon" from her lips was most alluring. She stole a mischievous glance at his face, but the fixed look there made her lift _her_ hand toward _him_. Perhaps, if he had seen and had spoken then--But he did see. "Eh bien, since monsieur won't fight, won't, _won't_," she cried, "then it's more fun to----" Evidently to seek livelier company. For she wheeled the mustang, swerved from a grasp at her bridle, and went galloping back to the coach. He twisted in his saddle, pushed his sombrero higher on his head, and dubiously watched her flying from him, a lithe, trim figure in snug Hungarian jacket, the burnished tendrils fluttering on the nape of her neck, the soft white veil trailing like a fleecy cloud from her black _amazona_ hat. He bent a perplexed gaze to the road. "It's 'way, 'way beyond me," he told himself. Then he grew aware of a sense of warmth on his forearm. Yes, he remembered. For an instant she had laid a hand on his sleeve, and he had thrilled to the ineffable token of nestling. He was never immune from her tantalizing contradictions. He felt this one yet.