The younger members of the party climbed up into this paradise one day, leaving the elders in their carriages. They came into a new world, as unlike Newport as if they had been a thousand miles away. The spot was wilder than it looked from a distance. The high ridges of rock lay parallel, with bosky valleys and ponds between, and the sea shining in the south--all in miniature. On the way to the ridges they passed clean pasture fields, bowlders, gray rocks, aged cedars with flat tops like the stone-pines of Italy. It was all wild but exquisite, a refined wildness recalling the pictures of Rousseau. Irene and Mr. King strolled along one of the ridges, and sat down on a rock looking off upon the peaceful expanse, the silver lines of the curving shores, and the blue sea dotted with white sails. “Ah,” said the girl, with an inspiration, “this is the sort of five-o'clock I like.” “And I'm sure I'd rather be here with you than at the Blims' reception, from which we ran away.” “I thought,” said Irene, not looking at him, and jabbing the point of her parasol into the ground, “I thought you liked Newport.” “So I do, or did. I thought you would like it. But, pardon me, you seem somehow different from what you were at Fortress Monroe, or even at lovely Atlantic City,” this with a rather forced laugh. “Do I? Well, I suppose I am; that is, different from what you thought me. I should hate this place in a week more, beautiful as it is.” “Your mother is pleased here?” The girl looked up quickly. “I forgot to tell you how much she thanked you for the invitation to your cousin's. She was delighted there.” “And you were not?” “I didn't say so; you were very kind.” “Oh, kind; I didn't mean to be kind. I was purely selfish in wanting you to go. Cannot you believe, Miss Benson, that I had some pride in having my friends see you and know you?” “Well, I will be as frank as you are, Mr. King. I don't like being shown off. There, don't look displeased. I didn't mean anything disagreeable.” “But I hoped you understood my motives better by this time.” “I did not think about motives, but the fact is” (another jab of the parasol), “I was made desperately uncomfortable, and always shall be under such circumstances, and, my friend--I should like to believe you are my friend--you may as well expect I always will be.” “I cannot do that. You under--” “I just see things as they are,” Irene went on, hastily. “You think I am different here. Well, I don't mind saying that when I made your acquaintance I thought you different from any man I had met.” But now it was out, she did mind saying it; and stopped, confused, as if she had confessed something. But she continued, almost immediately: “I mean I liked your manner to women; you didn't appear to flatter, and you didn't talk complimentary nonsense.” “And now I do?” “No. Not that. But everything is somehow changed here. Don't let's talk of it. There's the carriage.”