nk
it's a blamed nuisance."

"So do I," said a voice behind him.

It was not the first time that Mr. Somers Duncan had spoken, but Bob
either had not heard him or pretended not to. Mr. Duncan's freckled face
smiled at them from the top of the railing, his eyes were on
Cynthia's face, and he had been listening eagerly. Mr. Duncan's chief
characteristic, beyond his freckles, was his eagerness--a quality
probably amounting to keenness.

"Hello," said Bob, turning impatiently, "I might have known you couldn't
keep away. You're the cause of all my troubles--you and your father's
private car."

Somers became apologetic.

"It isn't my fault," he said; "I'm sure I hate going as much as you do.
It's spoiled my summer, too."

Then he coughed and looked at Cynthia.

"Well," said Bob, "I suppose I'll have to introduce you. This," he
added, dragging his friend over the railing, "is Mr. Somers Duncan."

"I'm awfully glad to meet you, Miss. Wetherell," said Somers, fervently;
"to tell you the truth, I thought he was just making up yarns."

"Yarns?" repeated Cynthia, with a look that set Mr. Duncan floundering.

"Why, yes," he stammered. "Worthy said that you were up here, but I
thought he was crazy the way he talked--I didn't think--"

"Think what?" inquired Cynthia, but she flushed a little.

"Oh, rot, Somers!" said Bob, blushing furiously under his tan; "you
ought never to go near a woman--you're the darndest fool with 'em I ever
saw."

This time even the painter laughed outright, and yet he was a little
sorrowful, too, because he could not be even as these youths. But
Cynthia sat serene, the eternal feminine of all the ages, and it is no
wonder that Bob Worthington was baffled as he looked at her. He lapsed
into an awkwardness quite as bad as that of his friend.

"I hope you enjoyed the game," he said at last, with a formality that
was not at all characteristic.

Cynthia did not seem to think it worth while to answer this, so the
painter tried to help him out.

"That was a fine stop you made, Mr. Worthington," he said; "wasn't it,
Cynthia?"

"Everybody seemed to think so," answered Cynthia, cruelly; "but if I
were a man and had hands like that" (Bob thrust them in his pockets), "I
believe I could stop a ball, too."

Somers laughed uproariously.

"Good-by," said Bob, with uneasy abruptness, "I've got to go into the
field now. When can I see you?"

"When you get back from the West--perhaps," said Cynthia.