so was she. A slow fury rose up in her,
and she watched the great events Of the afternoon with resentful eyes.
Even when a man not entered for racing, swung over the railing into the
center field, and scrambled upon the bare back of King Devil, the wild
horse of the plains which had never yielded to man's bridling hand, and
was tossed and dragged and jerked and twisted, until it seemed there
could be no life left in him, yet who finally pulled the horse almost
by brute force into submission, while the spectators went wild, and
Julia screamed, and Carol sank breathless and white into her seat, and
David stood on the bench and yelled until Carol pulled him down,--even
then Connie could not get the feeling. She wanted to write these
people, to put them on paper, and she couldn't, because they were not
people to her, they were just "Good points."

Afterward, when they slowly made their way to the car, and drove home
to the Bijou again, Connie was still silent. She saw David comfortably
settled in the big chair on the sunny corner of the porch, with Carol
beside him and Julia romping on the lawn. Then she walked up and down
in front of the hotel. Finally she came back to the corner of the
porch.

"David," she said impetuously, "I've got to speak to one of them
myself." She waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the fair-grounds.

"One of them?" echoed David.

"Yes, one of those riders. I want to see if they can make me feel
anything. I want to find out if they are anything like other folks."

David looked up suddenly, and a smile came to his eyes. Connie turned
quickly, and there, not two feet from her, stood "One of them," the man
who had ridden King Devil. His sombrero was pushed back on his head,
and his hair clung damply to his brown forehead. His lean face was
cynical, sneering. He carried a whip and spurs in one hand, the other
rested on the bulging hip of his khaki riding trousers.

Connie stared, fascinated, into the thin, brown, sneering face.

"How do you do?" he said mockingly. "Isn't it charming weather?"

Connie still looked directly into his eyes. Somehow she felt that back
of the sneer, back of the resentment, there lay a little hurt that she
should have spoken so, classed him with fine horses and cattle, him and
his kind. Connie would make amends, a daughter of the parsonage might
not do ungracious things like that.

"I beg your pardon," she said, sweetly, unsmilingly, "I did not me