"What do you think of my new pony?" she asked, forcing a smile. "He's teaching me the real game.... I left the others when Gray came up; Cuyp, Phil Gatewood, and some other men are practising. You'll play to-morrow, won't you? It's such a splendid game." She was talking at random, now, as though the sound of her own voice were sustaining her with its nervous informality; and she chattered on in feverish animation, bridging every threatened silence with gay inconsequences.
"You play polo, of course? Tell me you do."
"You know perfectly well I don't—"
"But you'll try if I ask you?"
He still held her hand imprisoned—that fragrant, listless little hand, so lifeless, nerveless, unresponsive—as though it were no longer a part of her and she had forgotten it.
"I'll do anything you wish," he said slowly.
"Then don't eat any of these mulberries until you are acclimated. I'm sorry; they are so delicious. But I won't eat any more, either."
"Nonsense," he said, bending down a heavily laden bough for her. "Eat! daughter of Eve! This fruit is highly recommended."
"Oh, Garry! I'm not such a pig as that!... Well, then; if you make me do it—"
She lifted her face among the tender leaves, detached a luscious berry with her lips, absorbed it reflectively, and shook her head with decision.