ratton had heard of him. And from whom? His spirit groaned within him
at the thought that old Ben Gaynor had been lured into paths along which
he should come to hobnob with men like Gratton. He was sorry that he had
promised to stay to lunch. His thoughts all of a sudden were restive,
flying off to Swen Brodie, to Loony Honeycutt, to what he must get done
without too much delay. Gratton startled him by speaking, bringing his
thoughts back from across the ridges to the sunny verandah overlooking
Lake Gloria.

Gratton was nobody's fool, save his own, and both marked and resented
King's attitude. His heavy lids had a fluttering way at times during
which his prominent eyes seemed to flicker.

"What's the chance with Gus Ingle's 'Secret' this year, Mr. King?" he
demanded silkily.

King wheeled on him.

"What do you know about it?" he said sharply. "And who has been talking
to you?"

Gratton laughed, looked wise and amused, and strolled away.

At luncheon Mrs. Gaynor placed her guests at table out on the porch,
conscious of her daughter's watchful eye. When all were seated, Mark
King found himself with Miss Gloria at his right and an unusually plain
and unattractive girl named Georgia on his left. Everybody talked, King
alone contenting himself with brevities. Over dessert he found himself
drifting into _tete-a-tete_ with Miss Gloria. They pushed back their
chairs; he found himself still drifting, this time physically and still
with Gloria as they two strolled out through the grove at the back of
the log house. There was a splendid pool there, boulder-surrounded; a
thoroughly romantic sort of spot in Gloria Gaynor's fancies, a most
charming background for springtime loitering. The gush and babble of the
bright water tumbling in, rushing out, filled the air singingly. Gloria
wanted to ask Mr. King about a certain little bird which she had seen
here, a little fellow who might have been the embodiment of the stream's
joy; she knew from her father that King was an intimate friend of wild
things and could tell her all about it. They sat in Gloria's favourite
nook, very silent, now and then with a whisper from Gloria, awaiting the
coming of the bird.

_Chapter V_

"But, my darling daughter," gasped Mrs. Gaynor, "you don't in the least
understand what you are about!"

"But, my darling mother," mimicked Miss Gloria, light of tone but with
all of the calm assurance of her years, "I do know exactly what I am
about!