ice,
Duane--I give you the disposal of myself. Am I to love--you?--or be
loved by God knows whom--and make him suffer for it"--she set her little
even teeth--"and pay back to men what man has done to me?"

"Nonsense," he said good-humouredly; "isn't there anything except
playing at love that counts in the world?"

"Nothing counts without it. I've learned that much."

"Some people have done pretty well without it."

"You haven't. You might have been a really good painter if you cared for
a woman who cared for you. There's no tenderness in your work; it's all
technique and biceps."

He said gravely: "You are right."

"Am I?... Do you think you could try to care for me--even for that
reason, Duane--to become a better painter?"

"I'm afraid not," he said pleasantly.

There was a silence; her expression changed subtly, then the colour came
back and she smiled and nodded adieu.

"Good-bye," she said; "I'm going to get into all sorts of mischief. The
black flag is hoisted. _Malheur aux hommes!_"

"There's one now," said Duane, laughing as Delancy Grandcourt's bulk
appeared among the trees along Hurryon Water. "Lord! what a bungler he
is on a trout-stream!"

Rosalie turned and gazed at the big, clumsy young man who was fishing
with earnestness and method every unlikely pool in sight.

"Does he belong to anybody?" she asked, considering him. "I want to do
real damage. He is usually at Geraldine's heels, isn't he?"

"Oh, let him alone," said Duane; "he's an awfully decent fellow. If a
man of that slow, plodding, faithful species ever is thoroughly aroused
by a woman, it will be a lively day for his tormentor."

Rosalie's blue eyes sparkled: "Will it?"

"Yes, it will. You had better not play hob with Delancy. Are you
intending to?"

"I don't know. Look at the man! That's the fourth time he's landed his
line in a bush! He'll fall into that pool if he's not--mercy!--there he
goes! Did you ever see such a genius for clumsiness?"

She was moving forward through the trees as she spoke; Duane called
after her in a warning voice:

"Don't try to do anything to disturb him. It's not good sport; he's a
mighty decent sort, I tell you."

"I won't play any tricks on your good young man," she said with a shrug
of contempt, and sauntered off toward the Gray Water. Her path, however,
crossed Grandcourt's, and as she stepped upon the footbridge she glanced
down, where, wading gingerly in mid-stream, Delancy floundered and