"I know. They got their supper at the fall near our camp. Robin came over to call on us. He often runs over for a little while when he comes our way."
She spoke quite unconcernedly, and Robin's name came easily from her lips. The little woman in black shot a triumphant look at Miss Carroway, who did not notice the attention or declined to acknowledge it. Of the others only Edith Morrison gave any sign. The sudden knowledge that Robin had called at the Deane camp the night before—that it was his habit to do so when he passed that way—a fact which Robin himself had not thought it necessary to mention—and then the familiar use of his name—almost caressing, it had sounded to her—brought back with a rush that heavy and hopeless feeling about her heart. She wanted to be wise and sensible and generous, but she could not help catching the veranda rail a bit tighter, while the rich color faded from her cheek. Yet no one noticed, and she meant that no one, not even Robin, should know. No doubt she was a fool, unable to understand, but she could not look toward Robin, nor could she move from where she stood, holding fast to the railing, trying to be wise and as self-possessed as she felt that other girl would be in her place.
Robin, meantime, had bent his steps in their direction. In his genial manner and with his mellow voice he acknowledged the greetings of this little group of guests. He had just recalled, he said to Constance, having seen something, during a recent trip over McIntyre, which he had at first taken for a very beautiful and peculiar flower. Later he had decided it might be of special interest to her. It had a flower shape, he said, and was pink in color, but was like wax, resembling somewhat the Indian pipe, but with more open flowers and much more beautiful. He did not recall having seen anything of the sort before, and would have brought home one of the waxen blooms, only that he had been going the other way and they seemed too tender to carry. He thought it a fungus growth.
Constance was deeply interested in his information, and the description of what seemed to her a possible discovery of importance. She made him repeat the details as nearly as he could recollect, and with the book attempted to classify the species. Her failure to do so only stimulated her enthusiasm.
"I suppose you could find the place, again," she said.
"Easily. It is only a few steps from the tripod at the peak," and he drew with his pencil a plan of the spot.
"I've heard the McIntyre trail is not difficult to keep," Constance reflected.
"No—provided, of course, one does not get into a fog. It's harder then. I lost the trail myself up there once in a thick mist."
The girl turned to Frank, who was lounging comfortably on the steps, idly smoking.
"Suppose we try it this afternoon," she said.