They pursued her recalcitrant ball until it led them, by many zigzags, to an old elm that had upset more than one good game. But they did not swear at it. They sat down under its generous shade, David lighted a cigarette and they gave themselves to a more agreeable exercise. They pretended to define it. "I suppose," Shirley broke a brief intimate silence, "people think we're having a violent flirtation. But we're not, are we?" "Certainly not," said David with emphasis. "They couldn't understand. We're just naturally meant to be good friends and it didn't take us an age to find that out." "Yes," said David slowly. "Tell me about yourself." He tried to make it interesting but when he came to the point there was really little to tell. "But that isn't all. You haven't told me why people are so confident of your future." "I don't know that. Sometimes I wonder whether they've the right to be confident." "You've been very successful, haven't you?" He shook his head. "I'm still poor--so poor you'd probably call it indecent--with my way to make. It seems a very slow way, too." There was a hint of disappointment in the quick glance she turned upon him. "Have I lost caste?" "No. I was just wondering-- But you're going to be successful, aren't you? _Everybody_ can't be mistaken in you. Tell me what you want to do." So he told her of his love for his work, of his studies and sketches, of the beautiful churches that he hoped he should some day build. It was early October; which is not unimportant. Before them opened a vista of wooded hills, tinted by the first frosts dull yellows and maroons, here and there a flash of rich crimson. A thin haze lay over the land, violet in the distance, about them an almost imperceptible golden. The voices of other players came softly to them, subdued and lazy as an echo. Fading hillsides, dying leaves, blue horizons--autumn, too, has its wistful charm, as potent as spring to bring young hearts together. "Everybody can't be mistaken," she repeated. "All those things you will do. I feel it, too. It's something you can't explain. You _know_ a man is big, just as you know a woman is good-- And you couldn't lose caste with me. I'm poor, too." He swept her with an incredulous glance that took in the beautiful, soft, hand-knit sweater jacket, the white flannel skirt with its air of having been fashioned by an expensive tailor, the white buckskins and bit of white silk stocking. He knew girls, daughters of rich fathers, who did not wear silk stockings for golfing.