would have it, the blouse concerned was one which did not approve
of hurry, and tolerated no liberties. It was of fine cambric,
hand-embroidered, fastening at the back, where on one side lived a
quantity of tiny pearl buttons, made to mate with an equal number of loops
on the other side, very little loops of linen thread. As works of art
these were admirable, but they liked to be waited upon respectfully by an
experienced lady's maid. Missing such attentions, not one would consent to
yoke itself with its appointed button.

Angela grew warm and flurried. She rang, but no one answered the bell, for
it was not yet six o'clock; and only a few of the hotel servants had come
on duty.

What should she do? Last night she had looked forward with interest to
dressing this morning, for Nick had got for her a costume suitable for
riding a trail pony, and fortunately she had it in her suit-case. It was
of khaki, with a divided skirt, and a peculiarly fetching jacket. But the
jacket must be worn over a thin blouse; and she could not go out to
breakfast with that blouse unbuttoned from neck to waist. No doubt by
this time Nick was waiting. A large party would start from the hotel to
drive to Mirror Lake, and they two were to be in the crowd--though not of
it--finding their trail ponies later. She might, of course, keep her
"forest creature" waiting indefinitely. He was inured to that treatment
and would not complain; but the others?

"Are you ready, Mrs. May?" Nick's voice inquired apologetically, outside
the door. "I hope you won't mind my bothering you, but I thought perhaps
your call had been forgotten, so----"

"_Can_ you do my blouse for me? Because I can't! And if you can't I shall
cry," moaned Angela in a voice of despair. She dashed the door open, and
stood on the threshold, in the sweet dawn, the river laughing at her
plight.

Nick did not laugh.

There was his Angel, in her short khaki skirt, and the thin cambric blouse
that would not button. Her face was flushed, her eyes sparkling with that
dress-rage than which no emotion known to woman is more fiercely
primitive. She was in an early morning "I don't care _what_ happens now!"
mood; but Nick cared.

In the first place, as his eyes took in the situation, he was overwhelmed
with a sense of vast responsibility. If he could not "do" the blouse, Mrs.
May had threatened to cry, and she looked as if she would keep her word.
So "do" the blouse he must, if the sky fell. An