She slowed her pace a little and turned to look at him curiously.
"Do you mean that you don't know the kind of a job you've got?"
"Not much," admitted Peter. "In addition to looking after the preserve, I'm to watch after the men—and obey orders, I suppose."
"H-m. Preserve! Sorry, Mr. what's your name——"
"Peter Nichols——" put in Peter promptly.
"Well, Mr. Peter Nichols, all I have to say is that you're apt to have a hard time."
"Yes, I'm against it!" translated Peter confidently.
The girl stopped in the middle of the road, put her hands on her hips and laughed up at the purpling sky. Her laugh was much like her singing—if angels in Paradise laugh (and why shouldn't they?). Then while he wondered what was so amusing she looked at him again.
"Up against it, you mean. You're English, aren't you?"
"Er—yes—I am."