It was in April that Archie Blair conceived the happy idea of purchasing an automobile, thus combining business with pleasure most practically; a modest secondhand affair of three good cylinders and one that missed, but it shone (Archibald being in the paint and varnish business) with a glossiness that advertised its owner afar off. And like the bicycle in the song, it was "built for two."

Archibald had no wish to intrude; still, an automobile is an automobile, and it seemed to him that on a fine Spring evening almost any young lady might like to ride in one, even if accustomed to limousines.

Joan first became aware of this acquisition one fine day when it appeared and reappeared and once again appeared passing the window where she sat reading. Three times, like Hector about the walls of Troy, it circled the block, smelling of its new paint and complaining loudly of its missing cylinder; and at last Joan, puzzled by this persistence, thought to glance at its driver. Clutching the wheel in a death grapple, taking his eye from the traffic only long enough for a hopeful glance at the house front as he passed, she recognized her friend in all the proud modesty of ownership.

Joan promptly put on a small hat and a large veil, and went out to take a walk.

"Miss Darcy! Say, Miss Darcy!" (Honk-honk—or rather Ooo-ooga-ooga!) "Look who's here! Mine! Bought it myself!—I was just hoping I'd run across you somewhere."

"I trust you won't," murmured the lady.

"Ha! Ha! Ha!" roared Archie, recognizing a jest. "Look out, or maybe I will yet! Perhaps the safest place is inside," he suggested craftily, and with some truth. Joan accepted the hint.

"Learnt in three lessons!" proclaimed Archie, unable to resist the temptation to brag a little. (An automobile of his own, all paid for, and the One and Only beside him on its seat—who can blame the man?) "Only got it last week, and if there's a part of little old Lizzie I don't know about, it's because it isn't there, that's all! Of course I can't take my eye off the road yet—" (this as a family party narrowly escaped annihilation)—"but you won't mind my talking sort of over my shoulder?"

"I won't mind your talking any way at all—so long as it's not about armadillos."

Archie grinned. "Now you're joshing me!"

"I never was more serious in my life. What's the subject this week?"

But he declined to be drawn. "All that's just for social gatherings. People don't have really to converse out-of-doors, do they?—Say, what if we go out in the real country somewhere!—not parks, where there's always so many things around, but a good straight empty road, where I can step on her tail and let her rip—eh?"

The idea seemed good to Joan. It was the sort of day when cities are an abomination, and the soul of the veriest urbanite yearns to follow a gipsy pateran.

Once out of the complications of traffic, Archibald lost his caution, and stepped on her tail and let her rip. The song of the birds, the neigh of startled colts in the fields as they passed, the rush of the golden air itself, all were lost in the roar of the willing little engine.

"Thirty-five, thirty-eight, forty-two—" chanted Archie with a proud eye on the speedometer. "Go to it, Lizzie! Good old girl!"

Joan had no fear. Somehow the car seemed safe in his big, powerful hands—as safe as she was herself. Off came her hat, and the wind did its pleasure with her hair. Rushing along so close to the ground, dust in their faces, trees and meadows passing in long green streaks, she got quite a different sense of motion from any she had known before. It was a more personal thing, more of an individual effort, as if she and her companion were really flying like birds, with the little car for wings.

"Oh, don't stop! It's glorious!" she cried as he suddenly slowed down.

He explained, quietly, that her hair was blowing in his eyes.

"What a nuisance!" She tucked the offending strand into place.

"I—didn't mind," said Archibald, in a rather queer voice.

Joan, with a glance at his face, decided that they would have to be turning back. But as she bade him good-by she said suddenly, "Teach me how to run Lizzie myself some day, will you, Archie?"

"You mean you'll go out with me again?" he demanded, radiant.

"Of course," promised Joan, reckless with speed and the Spring air. "Whenever you like!"

Archibald tooled his Lizzie back to her shed with the air of Phoebus driving the chariot of the sun. He warbled aloud, he wore his hat on one ear, he presented a small darky, who helped him to groom and tend Lizzie, with a silver dollar.

But that night as he lay in bed, with an April rain making music on the roof above him, he told himself soberly that he must be careful. There had been moments to-day, especially with her hair blowing across his face, when a fellow almost forgot!... He conjured himself by all his gods to be a wise little ostrich and keep his head well tucked into the sand.

And Joan, listening to the same soft rain, so full of suggestion and race memories and the call of the year, also reminded herself that she would have to be careful. She thought of his humble, adoring, happy eyes, and her heart smote her. This one was not quite as other men. To hurt an Archibald was a trifle beneath one's dignity.