“So she always insinuates,” replied Hadria demurely.
They were spinning down hill now, into a warm bit of country watered by the river, and Hadria drew rein. The spot was so pleasant that they alighted, tied the pony to a tree, and wandered over the grass to the river’s edge. Hadria picked her way from stone to slippery stone, into the middle of the river, where there was comparatively safe standing room. Here she was suddenly inspired to execute the steps of a reel, while Valeria stood dismayed on the bank, expecting every moment, to see the dance end in the realms of the trout.
But Hadria kept her footing, and continued to step it with much solemnity. Meanwhile, two young men on horseback were coming down the road; but as a group of trees hid it from the river at this point, they were not noticed. The horsemen stopped suddenly when they cleared the group of trees. The figure of a young woman in mid-stream, dancing a reel with extreme energy and correctness, and without a smile, was sufficiently surprising to arrest them.
“As I thought,” exclaimed Hadria, “it is Harold Wilkins!”
“I shall be glad to see this conquering hero,” said Valeria.
Hadria, who had known the young man since her childhood, waited calmly as he turned his horse’s head towards the river, and advanced across the grass, raising his hat. “Good morning, Miss Fullerton.”
“Good morning,” Hadria returned, from her rock.
“You seem to be having rather an agreeable time of it.”
“Very. Are you fond of dancing?”
Mr. Wilkins was noted, far and wide, for his dancing, and the question was wounding.