Peter didn't know. He had never thought of walking as a game. He played golf a little, tennis a little less. It had always been difficult for him to hold his mind on these unimportant pursuits. But he found himself responding eagerly. “You've gone in a lot for athletics,” said he, thinking of the lightness, the sheer ease, with which she had moved about the little Crossroads stage. “Oh, yes--at school and college--basket ball, running, fencing, dancing and this sort of thing. Dancing especially. I've really worked some at that, you know.” “Yes,” said he moodily, “I know.” They swung down into a valley, over a bridge, up the farther slope, through a notch and out along a little plateau with a stream winding across it. Peter found himself in some danger of forgetting his earnest purpose. He could fairly taste the fresh spring air. He could not resist occasionally glancing sidelong at his companion and thinking--“She is great in that sweater!” A new soft magic was stealing in everywhere among what he had regarded as his real thoughts and ideas. Once her elbow brushed his; and little flames rose in his spirit.... She walked like a boy. She talked like a boy. She actually seemed to think like a boy. The Worm's remark came to him, with an odd stabbing effect... “We haven't got around to 'the complete life' yet!” She quite bewildered him. For she distinctly was not a boy. She was a young woman. She couldn't possibly be so free from thoughts of self and the drama of life, of man and the all-conquering urge of nature! As a dramatist, as a student of women, he knew better. No, she couldn't--no more than “friend Betty” back there, philandering along with Hy, The Worm had guaranteed her innocence... but the Worm notoriously didn't understand women. No, it couldn't be true. For she _had_ broken away from her folks. She _did_ live with the regular bunch in the Village. She _did_ undoubtedly know her Strindberg and Freud. She _had_ taken up public dancing and acting. She _did_ smoke her cigarettes--had smoked one not half an hour back, publicly, on the veranda of a road house! ... He felt again the irritation she had on other occasions stirred in him. He slowed down, tense with this bewilderment. He drew his hand across his forehead. Sue went on a little ahead; then stopped, turned and regarded him with friendly concern! “Anything the matter?” “No--oh, no!” “Perhaps we started too soon after lunch.” She was babying him! “No--no... I was thinking of something!...” Almost angrily he struck out at a swift pace. He would show her who was the weakling in _this_ little party! He would make her cry for mercy! But she struck out with him. Swinging along at better than four miles an hour they followed the road into another valley and for a mile or two along by a bubbling brook.