the whole, I could hardly blame her. As she had always known me, I must
have appeared to her somewhat like Solomon's lilies. But I did not try to
convince her; there were other things more important.

I went and made my bow to Mrs. Loroman, and answered sundry
questions--more conventional, I may say, than were those of her daughter.
Mrs. Loroman was one of the best type of society dames, and I will own
that I was a bit surprised to find that she was Beryl King's aunt. In
spite of that indefinable little air of breeding that I had felt in my two
meetings with Miss King, I had thought of her as distinctly a daughter of
the range-land.

"I'll introduce you to my cousin and aunt now, if you like," Edith offered
generously, in an undertone--for the two were not ten feet from us,
although Miss King had not yet seen fit to know that I was in the room.
How a woman can act so deuced innocent, beats me.

Miss King lowered her chin as much as half an inch, and looked at me as if
I were an exceeding commonplace, inanimate object that could not possibly
interest her. Her aunt, Lodema King, was almost as bad, I think; I didn't
notice particularly. But Miss King's I-do-not-know-you-sir air could not
save her; I hadn't schemed like a villain for a week, and ridden
twenty-five miles at a good fast clip after a stiff day's work, just to be
presented and walk away. I asked her for the next waltz.

"The next waltz is promised to Mr. Weaver," she told me freezingly.

I asked for the next two-step.

"The next two-step is also promised--to Mr. Weaver."

I began to have unfriendly feelings toward Mr. Weaver. "Will you be good
enough to inform what dance is _not_ promised?" I almost finished "to Mr.
Weaver," but I'm not quite a cad, I hope.

"Really, we haven't programs here to-night," she parried.

I played a reckless lead. "I wonder," I said, looking straight down into
those eyes of hers, and hoping she couldn't suspect the prickles chasing
over me at the very look of them--"I wonder if it's because you're
_afraid_ to dance with me?"

"Are you so--fearsome?" she retorted evenly, and I got back instantly:

"It would almost seem so."

I had the satisfaction of seeing her lip go in between her teeth. (I
should like to say something about those teeth--only it would sound like
the advertisement of a dentifrice, for I should be bound to mention pearls
once or twice.)

"You are flattering yourself, Mr. Carleton; I am not at all afraid