"Yes, you always liked it, Glen."
"It went rather hard with me, when you first put it up, and wore long dresses. It seemed as though that were going to be the end of all our good times."
"But it wasn't, Glen?"
"No; you were the same old Indiana, although you looked more—the woman. Then you discovered your own power, and you took to breaking hearts. You were very apt at that business, for one so young."
"You forget," said Indiana, with a sly smile, "there was Grandma Chazy."
"That's true. An old soldier in camp put you on to all the principal maneuvers."
They both laughed, looking around cautiously, like naughty children, as though Mrs. Bunker might be hiding somewhere among the trees.
"I fought shy of you for awhile, then—I was young and unworldly." From Glen's seriously reminiscent expression, he might have been looking back upon another self of twenty or thirty years ago. "And I could not justify your practices at that time. I don't know whether you noticed the difference in me?"
"Only that you made yourself scarce when there was anyone else around."
"I accepted the inevitable after a while; but when I see you in the midst of a crowd of men, dealing out dances and smiles, you appear to me like some stranger, with a marvellous resemblance to a girl I once played with, called Indiana. Here, in the country, and up in the Adirondacks you are the real Indiana."