“What’s that?” demanded her uncle.
He had turned his horse to leave, and she stood on the sidewalk stroking Zan’s pretty nose.
“I said that I’d probably meet the chevalier sooner or later.”
“You shall do nothing of the kind,” declared the old gentleman, testily, and he rode off with considerable haste toward his own stable.
Frank Pollock was a good deal puzzled by Rodney Merriam’s action on the river road. He did not question that the old gentleman had recognized him; even if he had not, strangers passing on the highway in this part of the world usually saluted one another. Pollock was a fellow whose amiability had always made friends for him; he had been petted to the spoiling point by men and women in different parts of the republic, and as he watched Rodney Merriam and Zelda Dameron gallop away from him his face grew crimson. Pollock had not seen Zelda Dameron before, but he assumed that she was a relative of Rodney Merriam’s,—a fact which he deplored as the dust from their horses was driven back upon him.
It was, however, ordained by the powers that the meeting in the highway between Pollock and Zelda should not be their last. Mrs. Michael Carr had already discovered the young officer. She always discovered new people in town and was not happy until she had summoned them to her board. Her round table seated eight people comfortably, and she much preferred this small number to the twenty that were possible. Wishing to see Zelda at closer range, she made a small dinner—quite en famille—and bade Zelda and Pollock, the Copelands, Mrs. Forrest and Morris Leighton to her board. Michael Carr was fond of talk; to say that he was himself a conversationalist was not making too much of it. He even enjoyed the surprise of coming down to his drawing-room and finding utter strangers there,—often persons whom Mrs. Carr had met in the many clubs and societies of which she was a member.
“I am almost afraid to suggest that we may have met before,” said Pollock to Zelda, when they were seated at the table.
“I didn’t suppose a soldier was ever afraid,” replied Zelda, non-committally.
“I intimated,” repeated Pollock, “that I had seen you before. If you wish to ignore the fact—”
“Oh, I shouldn’t do that. I remember—the horse—perfectly!”