e that. She----"

"Great heavens," said Hawker, "you speak of nothing else!"

"Well, you saw her, didn't you?" demanded Hollanden. "What can you
expect, then, from a man of my sense? You--you old stick--you----"

"It was quite dark," protested the painter.

"Quite dark," repeated Hollanden, in a wrathful voice. "What if it was?"

"Well, that is bound to make a difference in a man's opinion, you know."

"No, it isn't. It was light down at the railroad station, anyhow. If you
had any sand--thunder, but I did get up early this morning! Say, do you
play tennis?"

"After a fashion," said Hawker. "Why?"

"Oh, nothing," replied Hollanden sadly. "Only they are wearing me out at
the game. I had to get up and play before breakfast this morning with
the Worcester girls, and there is a lot more mad players who will be
down on me before long. It's a terrible thing to be a tennis player."

"Why, you used to put yourself out so little for people," remarked
Hawker.

"Yes, but up there"--Hollanden jerked his thumb in the direction of the
inn--"they think I'm so amiable."

"Well, I'll come up and help you out."

"Do," Hollanden laughed; "you and Miss Fanhall can team it against the
littlest Worcester girl and me." He regarded the landscape and
meditated. Hawker struggled for a grip on the thought of the stubble.

"That colour of hair and eyes always knocks me kerplunk," observed
Hollanden softly.

Hawker looked up irascibly. "What colour hair and eyes?" he demanded. "I
believe you're crazy."

"What colour hair and eyes?" repeated Hollanden, with a savage gesture.
"You've got no more appreciation than a post."

"They are good enough for me," muttered Hawker, turning again to his
work. He scowled first at the canvas and then at the stubble. "Seems to
me you had best take care of yourself, instead of planning for me," he
said.

"Me!" cried Hollanden. "Me! Take care of myself! My boy, I've got a past
of sorrow and gloom. I----"

"You're nothing but a kid," said Hawker, glaring at the other man.

"Oh, of course," said Hollanden, wagging his head with midnight wisdom.
"Oh, of course."

"Well, Hollie," said Hawker, with sudden affability, "I didn't mean to
be unpleasant, but then you are rather ridiculous, you know, sitting up
there and howling about the colour of hair and eyes."

"I'm not ridiculous."

"Yes, you are, you know, Hollie."

The writer waved his hand despairingly. "And you rode in the train with
her, a