“It’s quite an intimate interest, isn’t it?”
“‘But never can battle of men compare With merciless feminine fray’”— quoted Io pensively.
“Kipling is a sophomore about women,” retorted Miss Van Arsdale. “We’re not going to quarrel over Errol Banneker. The odds are too unfair.”
“Unfair?” queried Io, with a delicate lift of brow.
“Don’t misunderstand me. I know that whatever you do will be within the rules of the game. That’s the touchstone of honor of your kind.”
“Isn’t it good enough? It ought to be, for it’s about the only one most of us have.” Io laughed. “We’re becoming very serious. May I take the pony?”
“Yes. Will you be back for supper?”
“Of course. Shall I bring the paragon?”
“If you wish.”
Outside the gaunt box of the station, Io, from the saddle sent forth her resonant, young call: