"I have a queer idea that we’re beginning in the middle of everything—that we’ve already known each other long enough to waive preliminaries and begin our acquaintance as old friends." He was saying almost exactly what she had not put into words. He was still looking at her intently, curiously, with the same slightly importunate, slightly deferential smile which she now vividly remembered in the boy. "Do you, by any chance, feel the same about our encounter?" he asked. "What way?" "That we seem to have known each other for a long time?" Stephanie had not yet learned very much in the art of self-defense. A question to her still meant either a truthful answer or a silence. She remained silent. "Do you, Miss Quest?" he persisted. "Yes, I do." "As though," he insisted, "you and I are beginning in the middle of the book of friendship instead of bothering to cut the pages of the preface?" he suggested gaily. She laughed. "You know," she warned him, "that I have not yet made up my mind about you." "Oh. Concerning what are you in doubt?" "Concerning exactly how I ought to consider you." "As a friend, please." "Perhaps. Are we going to dance or talk?" After they had been dancing for a few moments: "So you are a crew man?" "Who told you?" "I’ve inquired about you," she admitted, glancing sideways at the tall, spare, graceful young fellow with his almost golden colouring. "I have questioned various people. They told me things." "Did they give me a black eye?" he asked, laughingly. "No. But somebody gave you a pair of golden ones.... Like two sun-spots on a brown brook. You’ve a golden look; do you know it?" "Red-headed men turn that way when they’re in the sun and wind," he explained, still laughing, yet plainly fascinated by the piquant, breezy informality of this young girl. "Tell me, do you still go to school, Miss Quest?" "How insulting! ... Yes! But it was mean of you to ask." "Good Lord! You didn’t expect me to think you the mother of a family, did you?" That mollified her. "Where do you go to school?" he continued. "Miss Montfort’s. I finish this week." "And then?" "To college, I’m afraid." "Don’t you want to?" "I’d rather go to a dramatic school." "Is that your inclination, Miss Quest?" "I’d adore it! But dad doesn’t." "Too bad." "I don’t know. I’m quite happy, anyway. I’m having a wonderful time, whatever I’m doing." "Then it isn’t an imperious call from Heaven to leave all and elevate the drama?" he asked, with a pretense of anxiety that made her laugh. "You are disrespectful. I’m sure I could elevate the drama if I had the chance. But I sha’n’t get it. However, next to the stage I adore to paint," she explained. "There is a class. I have attended it for two years. I paint rather nicely." "No wonder we feel so friendly," exclaimed Grismer. "Why? Do _you_ paint?" "No, but I’m to be a sculptor."