For the rest of the way up that coulée Frosty and I were even more silent and moody than we had been before. The only time we spoke was when Frosty asked me gruffly how long those people expected to stay out here. I told him a week, and he grunted something under his breath about female fortune-hunters. I couldn't see what he was driving at, for I certainly should never think of accusing Edith and her mother of being that especial brand of abhorrence, but he was in a bitter mood, and I wouldn't argue with him then--I had troubles of my own to think of. I was beginning to call myself several kinds of a fool for letting a girl--however wonderful her eyes--give me bad half-hours quite so frequently; the thing had never happened to me before, and I had known hundreds of nice girls--approximately. When a fellow goes through a co-ed course, and has a dad whom the papers call financier, he gets a speaking-acquaintance with a few girls. The trouble with me was, I never gave the whole bunch as much thought as I was giving to Beryl King--and the more I thought about her, the less satisfaction there was in the thinking. I waited a day or two, and then practically ran away from my work and rode over to that little butte. Some one was sitting on the same flat rock, and I climbed up to the place with more haste than grace, I imagine. When I reached the top, panting like the purr of the _Yellow Peril_--my automobile--when it gets warmed up and going smoothly, I discovered that it was Edith Loroman sitting placidly, with a camera on her knees, doing things to the internal organs of the thing. I don't know much about cameras, so I can't be more explicit. "If it isn't Ellie, looking for all the world like the _Virginian_ just stepped down from behind the footlights!" was her greeting. "Where in the world have you been, that you haven't been over to see us?" "You must know that the palace of the King is closed against the Carletons," I, said, and I'm afraid I said it a bit crossly; I hadn't climbed that unmerciful butte just to bandy commonplaces with Edith Loroman, even if we were old friends. There are times when new enemies are more diverting than the oldest of old friends. "Well, you could come when Uncle Homer is away--which he often is," she pouted. "Every Sunday he drives over to Kenmore and pokes around his miners and mines, and often Terence and Beryl go with him, so you could come--" "No, thank you." I put on the dignity three deep there. "If I can't come when your uncle is at home, I won't sneak in when he's gone. I--how does it happen you are away out here by yourself?"