she changed the subject. There was
something uncanny in Philip's perfect comprehension of the minstrel's
tactics.

A little later Mr. Poynter produced a green bug mounted eccentrically
upon a bit of birch bark.

"I found a bug," he said guilelessly. "He was a very nice little bug.
I thought you'd like him."

Diane frowned. For every flower the minstrel brought, Philip contrived
a ridiculous parallel.

"How many times," she begged hopelessly, "must I tell you that I am not
collecting ridiculous bugs?"

Philip raised expressive eyebrows.

"Dear me!" said he in hurt surprise. "You do surprise me. Why, he's
the greenest bug I ever saw and he matches the van. He's a nomad with
the wild romance of the woodland bounding through him. I did think I'd
score heavily with him."

Diane discreetly ignored the inference. Whistling happily, Mr. Poynter
poured the coffee and leaned back against a tree trunk. Watching him
one might have read in his fine eyes a keener appreciation of nomadic
life--and nomads--than he ever expressed.

There was idyllic peace and quiet in this grove of ancient oaks shot
with the ruddy color of the sunset. Off in the heavier aisles of
golden gloom already there were slightly bluish shadows of the coming
twilight. Hungry robins piped excitedly, woodpeckers bored for worms
and flaming orioles flashed by on golden wings. Black against the sky
the crows were sailing swiftly toward the woodland.

With the twilight and a young moon Philip produced his wildwood pipe
and fell to smoking with a sigh of comfort.

"Philip!" said Diane suddenly.

"Mademoiselle!" said Philip, suspiciously grave and courtly of manner.
The girl glanced at him sharply.

"It annoys me exceedingly," she went on finally, finding his laughing
glance much too bland and friendly to harbor guile, "to have you
trailing after me in a hay-wagon."

"I'll buy me a rumpus machine," said Philip.

"It would bother me to have you trailing after me so persistently in
any guise!" flashed the girl indignantly.

"It must perforce continue to bother you!" regretted Philip.
"Besides," he added absently, "I'm really the Duke of Connecticut in
disguise, touring about for my health, and the therapeutic value of hay
is enormous."

Now why Diane's cheeks should blaze so hotly at this aristocratic claim
of Mr. Poynter's, who may say? But certainly she glanced with swift
suspicion at her tranquil guest, who met her eyes with supreme