“Wait!” he cried. “I’m getting it! Gloria Greene’s studio. A girl asleep on the divan, while I was playing. She corrected a change of chord for me. But—you! Never tell me that was you!” “Darcy Cole, at your service.” “Well—well, but,” stammered Remsen, for once in his life wholly confused and bewildered. “What were _you_ in disguise for?” “I wasn’t.” “Then I must have been stone blind that day!” “You had no eyes at all—for me,” said she demurely. “However, that’s not to be wondered at.” “If it were, somebody else would have to do the wondering. My capacity in that direction is totally exhausted. Won’t you please explain?” “With pleasure. If you’ll tell me what.” Miss Cole was enjoying herself greatly. “What this transformation scene means? At the studio you were, well—” “Say it,” she encouraged. “I was an ugly little toad.” Remsen made gestures and gurgles of violent protest. “Not at all! But you were—well, quite different.” “Yes, I wasn’t very well. Nor very happy.” “Judging from appearances, you must be about the healthiest and happiest person in the world to-day, then,” he retorted. “Do you know,” she reproved, “that your compliments lack subtlety?” “That’s easy. Because I mean ’em.” The native at the wheel made a quarter turn with his head, extended his mouth to a point east by north of his right ear, and from the corner of it shouted: “Set tight. Here’s where she gits kinder streaky.” Thereupon, as at a signal call, the car gathered itself together and proceeded to emulate the chamois of the Alps. For several frantic leaps and jounces the couple in the back seat preserved the conventionalities. Then came a stretch where an ancient, humpbacked vein of granite had thrust itself up through the road’s surface, and all decorum was flung to the winds. Miss Cole crossed the car in two bunny-jumps and fell upon Mr. Remsen’s neck, thrusting his head against the side curtain with such force as to form a bulge, which several outreaching trees playfully poked with their branches. As further evidence of her affection, she stuck her elbow in his eye, after which she coyly retreated into her own corner by the aerial route. Mr. Remsen assisted her flight by a method known in football as “giving the shoulder.” He then rose to explain, settled squarely upon both her feet, and concluded the performance by seating himself on her knees and browsing a mouthful from the veil which was twisted about her hat. Taking advantage of a precious but fleeting moment when the car soared like a gull across a bay of mud, they both addressed the chauffeur. “Stop!” shrieked Miss Cole. “Schlupff!” vociferated Mr. Remsen, meaning the same thing. But the veil had become involved with his utterance. The native brought his “boat” to a halt, just short of a ghastly blind turn, screened by a wooded cliff. “S’ matter?” he inquired. “You’re shaking us to bits,” protested Darcy. “Please don’t go so fast.”