"I can," retorted Miss Edith, "every bit as easily as I can imagine you! And, if you'll pardon me, I don't believe a word of it, either." On the whole, I could hardly blame her. As she had always known me, I must have appeared to her somewhat like Solomon's lilies. But I did not try to convince her; there were other things more important. I went and made my bow to Mrs. Loroman, and answered sundry questions--more conventional, I may say, than were those of her daughter. Mrs. Loroman was one of the best type of society dames, and I will own that I was a bit surprised to find that she was Beryl King's aunt. In spite of that indefinable little air of breeding that I had felt in my two meetings with Miss King, I had thought of her as distinctly a daughter of the range-land. "I'll introduce you to my cousin and aunt now, if you like," Edith offered generously, in an undertone--for the two were not ten feet from us, although Miss King had not yet seen fit to know that I was in the room. How a woman can act so deuced innocent, beats me. Miss King lowered her chin as much as half an inch, and looked at me as if I were an exceeding commonplace, inanimate object that could not possibly interest her. Her aunt, Lodema King, was almost as bad, I think; I didn't notice particularly. But Miss King's I-do-not-know-you-sir air could not save her; I hadn't schemed like a villain for a week, and ridden twenty-five miles at a good fast clip after a stiff day's work, just to be presented and walk away. I asked her for the next waltz. "The next waltz is promised to Mr. Weaver," she told me freezingly. I asked for the next two-step. "The next two-step is also promised--to Mr. Weaver." I began to have unfriendly feelings toward Mr. Weaver. "Will you be good enough to inform what dance is _not_ promised?" I almost finished "to Mr. Weaver," but I'm not quite a cad, I hope. "Really, we haven't programs here to-night," she parried. I played a reckless lead. "I wonder," I said, looking straight down into those eyes of hers, and hoping she couldn't suspect the prickles chasing over me at the very look of them--"I wonder if it's because you're _afraid_ to dance with me?" "Are you so--fearsome?" she retorted evenly, and I got back instantly: "It would almost seem so." I had the satisfaction of seeing her lip go in between her teeth. (I should like to say something about those teeth--only it would sound like the advertisement of a dentifrice, for I should be bound to mention pearls once or twice.) "You are flattering yourself, Mr. Carleton; I am not at all afraid to dance with you," she said--and, oh, the tone of her! "I shall expect you to prove that instantly," I retorted, still looking straight into her face. A quadrille--the old-fashioned kind--was called, and she looked up at me and put out her hand. Only an idiot would wonder whether I took it.