“Ah--aw! Yes, of course,” Harrower murmured vaguely, not knowing or caring in the least about Jerry Barclay, but filled with sudden admiration for the fresh-faced, blonde girl who rose at their approach and came to the top of the steps. Though she had never seen him before she included him in the sweet frank smile and friendly glance with which she greeted Mercedes. “Rosamund,” said Mercedes, throwing the reins around the whip with the easy flourish of the expert, “I’ve brought over Mr. Harrower. He’s making a collection of Californian specimens, and I thought perhaps he’d like to see you. He’ll put you down under the head of vertebrate fauna, I suppose.” The stranger, whose face had grown exceedingly red, did not know whether in the free, untrammeled West this constituted an introduction. The young woman, however, solved the difficulty by coming down a step or two and extending a welcoming hand. He looked into a pair of gray eyes, unusually honest and direct, and heard her saying in a voice, not low-keyed, but clear and full, “I’m glad you came, Mr. Harrower. It was very kind of Mercedes to bring you.” On the balcony above Mrs. Barclay had risen and was looking at the new-comers with avid curiosity. She had already talked them threadbare in every drawing-room from Millbrae to Menlo Park. Her personal acquaintance with both was very slight and this was a good opportunity to improve it and arrive at conclusions, to air which she could once again make a tour of the country houses and be sure of eager attention. Behind her, at a table laden with a silver pitcher, glasses and plates, June was standing. She was pouring out a glass of lemonade, which Jerry was waiting to take to his mother, when the phaeton drove up. The glass was filled and the pitcher set down, before either of them looked at the new arrivals. Then Jerry turned and his eyes fell on them. He stopped short, the glass in his hand. Mercedes, a smile of greeting on her lips, was just mounting the steps. “Heavens, what a girl!” he said in a whisper, turning to June. “Yes,” she answered in an equally low voice, “she’s very pretty.” “Pretty! pretty!” he ejaculated, mechanically setting the glass down. “Why she’s a dream!” He turned again and looked at Mercedes, who was speaking to his mother. His face was staring with admiration, a slight fixed smile on his lips. It was the look of the male suddenly stricken by the physical charm of the female. June dropped her eyes to the table with a sensation of feeling cold, insignificant and small. “Your mother’s lemonade,” she said, pushing the glass toward him. “You were going to take it to her.” He did not appear to hear her. His eyes were fastened on Mercedes, the slight smile still on his lips. Forgetful of the glass with which June had touched his hand, he slowly walked across the balcony to where Mrs. Barclay stood and said gaily,