“It’s not the Sunday part of it. It’s the energy. Fancy standing out in that sun of your own free will!” “You’re horribly lazy,” said the young girl. “It’s your worst fault. You do nothing all day but lie about on the balcony and drink lemonade.” “I _could_ drink beer,” said Harrower dreamily, “but I’ve never seen anything but lemonade.” “Well, I’ve come to tell you that I’m going to insist on your being more energetic. I want you to take me for a drive.” “A drive! Now? But, my dear Miss Gracey, the sun’s simply scorching.” Mercedes flushed slightly. Her cavalier’s manner of accepting the suggestion did not please her. “If you’re afraid of your complexion,” she said, “you can hold my parasol over your head. I’ll drive.” Harrower laughed. When she said things of this kind he thought her what he would have called “great fun.” Still he would have much preferred remaining on the balcony with his novel and his cigarette, to braving the heat of the afternoon, even in Miss Gracey’s smart new pony phaeton, with Miss Gracey in the driver’s seat. He sat up, rubbing his eyes into a more wakeful brightness and smothering a yawn. “Where are we to drive to? Menlo Park again?” “No, I’m going to take you back in the hills to the De Soto place. It was originally an old Spanish grant and part of the place is just the way it used to be. The Allens live there. They moved down early this year, so I don’t think you met them in town. Some people think the girls are very pretty.” “Pretty girls!” said Harrower, pricking up his ears. “By all means let’s go.” He looked at her laughing, for he thought she would enjoy the humor of his sudden enthusiasm. Instead, for a fleeting second, her face was clouded with annoyance. Then she recovered herself and rose to her feet, moving away from him. “The horses are ready now,” she said. “I’ll go up for my hat and parasol and I’ll expect to find you at the steps when I come down.” The heat was waning, the live-oak shadows lying dark and irregular over the drive, when the phaeton approached the Allens’ balcony. The light dresses of the Allen girls were thrown up by the darker gown of dignified middle age. Mrs. Barclay was sitting in a wicker arm-chair near the balustrade fanning herself with a palm-leaf fan. Mercedes muttered annoyance to her companion, and then her glance was charged with a sudden infusion of interest as it fell on a graceful masculine back bending over a table set with plates and glasses, behind which June Allen was standing. “That must be Jerry Barclay,” she murmured to Harrower, as, with dexterous exactness she brought up the phaeton wheels against the mounting block. “I’ve not met him yet. He’s been in Virginia City, like everybody else.”