“Child, do you know that—Do you understand—”
“You are nice-nice!”
With complete understanding, she awaited his pleasure and, possibly, her own.
Irene had shown selectiveness in the set for the scene. The path at that point was low-leaved and lone. Nothing broke the silence except the siren-chorus of invisible cars. Nothing marred the woodsy fragrances except the reek of gasoline. Nothing held Pape back except the realization that, once he had kissed this almost irresistible young lady of to-day——
At that, only Polkadot saved the situation. Whether intolerant of his propinquity with a mere hireling, whether sensing the predicament of a man-master who never had brushed stirrups with a woman unless on some picnic ride with a crowd along, or whether too fed-up on stable fodder to endure such inactivity one second longer, at any rate, the painted pony forewent all equine etiquette; bolted.
Not until they had made a flying turn at Harlem Mere and started cross-park toward the West Path did Pape’s strong hand at the rein dictate that they let the trailing black catch up. When again the two horses, as nicely matched for contrast as were their riders, paced side by side in form——
“You all right, dar-rling?” panted Irene, from excitement and exercise beautiful as the favorite “still” of a picture queen.
“Right as—as you nearly had me wrong.”
At his serious look, she laughed up at him shamelessly. “You missed your chance that time. And a miss to me is as good as many miles.”
“Don’t you mean,” he asked, “that a Miss is as bad as a Mrs.?”