She said, “I don’t wonder you’re cross. And I’m truly sorry. Is it quite ruined?” At that I recovered some decency of manner. “Forgive a hermit,” I said, “who doesn’t see enough people to keep him civilized. The daub doesn’t matter.” She leaned over from the saddle to examine the picture. “Oh, but it isn’t a daub!” she protested. “I—I know a little about pictures. It’s very interesting and curious. But why do you paint it on copper?” I explained. “Oh!” she said. “I should so like to see your prints!” “Nothing easier,” said I. “My shack is just over the hill.” “And there is a Mrs.—” her eyes suggested that I fill the blank. “Sedgwick?” I finished. “No. There is no one but my aged and highly respectable Chinaman to play propriety. But in the case of a studio, _les convenances_ are not so rigid but that one may look at pictures unchaperoned.” “I’m afraid it wouldn’t do,” she answered, smiling. “No, I’ll have to wait until—” A shadow passed over her face. “I’m afraid I’ll have to give it up.” Chance settled that point then and there. As she finished, she was in my arms. The girth had loosened, and the saddle had turned with her. I had barely time to twist her foot from the stirrup when the brute of a horse bolted. As it was, her ankle got a bit of a wrench. She turned quite white, and cried out a little. In a moment she was herself again. “King Cole has been acting badly all day,” she said. “I shall have a time catching him.” She limped forward a few steps. “Here, that won’t do!” said I. “Let me.” “You couldn’t get near him—though, perhaps, if you had some salt—” “I can get some at my place,” said I, gathering up my things. “Your horse is headed that way. You’d better come along and rest there while Ching Lung and I round up your mount.” (_Comment by C. K._: _Here follows more talk, showing how young people imperceptibly and unconsciously cement an acquaintance; but not one word upon the vital point of how far the horse seemed to have come, whether he was ridden out, or fresh, etc._) At the bungalow I called Ching, and we set out with a supply of salt. King Cole (_Comment by C. K._: _Probably a dead-black horse_) was coy for a time, before he succumbed to temptation. On my return I found my visitor in the studio. She had said that she knew a little about pictures. She knew more than a little, a good deal, in fact, and talked most intelligently about them. I don’t say this simply because she tried, before she went, to buy some of mine. When I declined to sell she seemed put out. “But surely these prints of yours aren’t the work of an amateur,” she said. “You sell?” “Oh, yes, I sell—when I can. But I don’t sell without a good bit of bargaining; particularly when I suspect my purchaser of wishing to make amends by a purchase.” “It isn’t that at all,” she said earnestly. “I want the pictures for themselves.” “Call this a preliminary then, and come back when you have more time.”