"I see the Lorraine woman is with Gladys Chamberlain," observed Porshinger, as he and his host were enjoying a good-night smoke in the billiard room, and incidentally knocking the balls about.

"Hum!" replied Woodside, as he made a neat gather along the rail. "When did you see her—come down on the same train?"

"No—passed them in the car, as I came from the station. What's she going to do—make it up with Lorraine, if he recovers?"

"Search me!" answered the other. "Will he have her?"

"You're a little behind, Josh—everybody knows that he has offered and she's undecided."

"Well, I wish him success. She's a damn good looking woman—better looking even than when she ran away with Amherst—don't you think so? Oh! I forgot you didn't know her then."

Porshinger shot a sharp look down the table—and followed it with a smile.

"I don't know her now—to speak to," he said. "But I have no trouble in recollecting two years back—and I quite agree with you. She is even better looking now. I don't wonder that she turned Amherst's head."

"It's a cold head, she turned!" Woodside laughed. "I fancy she found it out soon enough, and that they had a parrot and monkey time of it until they broke finally. The ways of the transgressor are full of punctures."

"You refer to only one sort of transgressors, I imagine," Porshinger remarked, with a thinly veiled contempt.

"Yes at that moment I did," said his host indifferently; "but it applies to every one—you and me included," and he steadied himself for a massÈ.

"You know the Chamberlains well enough to—happen in?" asked Porshinger presently.

"Want to meet the statuesque beauty—hey?" Woodside laughed.

Porshinger nodded.

"She does rather appeal to one," Woodside confessed. "If I weren't married, I think I would take a flyer myself."

"Don't let that stop you—marriage is no disqualification with her; she's proven it."

"She has proven it once—she will be mighty careful not to let it happen again," said Woodside.

"To the extent of running away, yes," Porshinger sneered. "Otherwise she is but wiser in the savoir faire, so to speak."

"That is a damn cynical way of looking at it, Porshinger!"

"You're welcome to your view, my friend," the other shrugged.

"You pays your money and you takes your choice," commented Woodside.

"There is no possible doubt about you paying your money," Porshinger assured dryly. "She will come high."

"If she is in the market—that is," Woodside amended.

"Most women," sneered Porshinger, as he clicked the balls down the rail, "have their price—even Mrs. Lorraine."

"Well, that need be no obstacle to you," Woodside retorted. "You have the price. What you haven't got is the girl—can you get her?"

"My dear fellow, I don't know yet that I want her."

His host laughed lightly.

"You want to look her over first," he said. "I understand. Well if you do want her I wish you luck. I should hesitate about going up against that chilly beauty—she can make you feel like thirty cents if she's so minded."

"She'll not have a chance to make me feel like thirty cents, depend on it," Porshinger boasted.

"You evidently don't know her," Woodside remarked.

"Do you know her?" his guest inquired.

"I've seen her at the Club, and she has the grand manner—such as you read about in books. She can humble you with a look, patronize you with a smile, humiliate you with a frown."

"She must be a wonderful woman!" Porshinger laughed. "I'm anxious to meet her."

"Well, we may happen over to-morrow evening and you can see whether it's to be a freeze or a thaw. I'm rather inclined to the notion that it will be a freeze—and a fairly hard one, too."

"You're a cheerful sort of sponsor," Porshinger remarked. "Better not risk your reputation as a prophet of evil."

"Don't make me your sponsor!" Woodside exclaimed. "I told you I didn't know Mrs. Lorraine."

"You know Gladys Chamberlain, don't you?"

"Yes—in a sort of way. I think she and Mrs. Woodside exchange calls, once a season, down here—not in town. Why don't you work old Chamberlain—you're in the Tuscarora with him?"

"That will serve as an additional excuse for the 'happen in.' I want the meeting to be casual—without any suggestion of pre-arrangement."

Woodside nodded.

"All right!" he agreed. "We'll try it—but what the lady may do to you is quite another question."

"Which we will let the future determine," replied Porshinger, as he clicked up the last point.

There was one thing, at least, about Porshinger that was normal—his love of country life. Incident to this was his fondness for taking long walks in the early morning—a characteristic not at all accordant with his present station. He acquired it in the days when his occupation in the oil fields made it the regular manner of life.

Seven o'clock the following morning saw him on the highway, clad in knickerbockers and stout shoes, a Panama pulled down over his eyes and a light stick in his hand.

It was a glorious early summer day, with just a line of haze along the distant hills; the air was soft with the breath of the open country; the dew was still heavy on grass and shrub. As he swung along, whistling merrily as a school boy on his way to a vacation-day frolic, he did not in the remotest degree suggest the cold, hard man of finance, compared to whom an arctic night is as a torrid afternoon. It was the one occasion on which he permitted himself to relax and be entirely natural.

Presently, away off in front on the macadam road, he noticed a pedestrian—who, as he slowly decreased the distance, was resolved into a woman—and, as he gradually overtook her, into a tall, willowy figure, in a short walking skirt, high tan shoes lacing well up the leg, and a small Continental hat, set at a rakish angle.

"Who is it?" he kept asking himself—and then there came a sharp turn in the road and he recognized her.

It was Stephanie Lorraine.

A momentary smile of satisfaction crossed his lips, and he extended his stride a trifle. Here was an opportunity, better than any of Woodside's devising, for him to make her acquaintance—quite by accident and altogether informally. And for her to snub him, if she were so minded, with no one but themselves to witness it nor to remember.

He came up with her a little farther on. As she glanced casually at him he raised his hat and said, bowing and pausing as he did so:

"Good morning, Mrs. Lorraine!"

Stephanie knew who had been behind—she had heard his quick, sharp step a long way back and had contrived, as only a woman can, to see who it was without betraying that she had seen. And she had decided what she would do, if he overtook her,—and she was intending that he should overtake her—and speak; also what she would do if, by any chance, he did not speak.

"Good morning, sir," she replied.

It was politely indifferent, yet at the same time courteous. It neither repelled, repressed nor invited.

"It is a charming morning," said he, appraising the situation as he saw it.

It was just as he had anticipated. She had no thought of snubbing him—she was very well content to take him as one of the circle to which she belonged, and to treat him accordingly.

"Perfectly lovely!" she answered.

He shortened his steps, so that he remained a trifle in advance and appeared to be slowly passing her.

"It's the cream of the day, to me," he said—"particularly at this season of the year. I don't know that I should call it so all the year."

"No!" she said. "Nor I—here in the North."

She saw what was coming—and it came.

"If I present myself to you properly, may I walk along?" he smiled—"we're going the same road, it seems."

"Are you willing to be sponsor for yourself?" she smiled back.

"Only in exceptional instances," he bowed and removed his hat. "Permit me to present Charles Porshinger to Mrs. Lorraine!"

She held out her hand.

"I'm glad to meet Mr. Porshinger," she said.

He fell back into step with her and they swung along, appraising each other while they talked—only Stephanie's appraisal was also with a woman's natural intuition. And the more she appraised him the less she liked him, but the more she set herself to win him—slowly and discreetly, as a clever woman knows so well how to do. And for all his shrewdness in the affairs of men, he was as a child in the ways of women.

Presently they came to a stile and Stephanie paused.

"I leave the highway here," she said. "I go back through the fields—there is a path running around the hill. Do you know it?"

"No—but I should like to know it," he invited. "Won't you show it to me?"

"It will take you out of your course!" she suggested.

"I have no course this morning but the one you fix," he said.

"Take care, m'sieur!" she warned. "I may be a poor—navigator."

"I'll risk it, madame—both your skill as a pilot and your ability as a captain."

She shot him a look from under her long lashes.

"Very well," she replied and sprang lightly to the stile.

He was before her at the steps, however, with hand extended to help her.... For just an instant, her fingers rested in his; then dropped them, and she was over. A faint smile touched his lips as he followed.

The path was scarcely wide enough for two; and the high grass on either side confined it even more, so that he was perforce obliged to walk just a shade behind—and talking is difficult when one precedes the other. But it gave him a fine opportunity to observe the woman before him, and he made the best of it.

The morning sun was spinning her auburn hair to gleaming copper, and beneath the dead white of her cheek the blood pulsed faintly pink. The trim, slender figure was, for all its seeming listlessness, alive with latent energy and spirit—her shoulders, even under her jacket, he could see were beautifully proportioned, her neck was slender and long, but not too long—and her feet, even in the heavy shoes, were slim and arched, and she put them down well—distinctly well. A subtle perfume floated back to him, and he found himself bending forward to catch a fuller fragrance. Then the path widened and, half turning, she waited for him to draw up.

"This path evidently wasn't made by the socially inclined," he said.

"It wasn't. It was made originally by the cattle which pastured here—and do so still," she added, as they passed a copse of trees and undergrowth and came upon a herd of a dozen cows with a brawny bull at their head.

The latter, at the sight of the two strangers who were invading his domain, flung up his head and stared at them with a distinctly hostile air.

"His Majesty does not seem pleased with us!" she laughed.

"No—I should say we don't make a favorable impression, judging from his attitude," he answered, glancing carelessly toward the animals.

"He's not properly appreciative of the honor you do him, Mr. Porshinger," she remarked.

He did not quite like the words—he thought he detected just a touch of irony; but she flashed him a smile from her lash-shaded eyes, and the suspicion vanished.

"He doesn't want any one poaching on his pasture," he said.

The bull suddenly put down its head, pawed the earth, and bellowed.

"I think we would better hurry," she remarked, quickening her step.

"It's only a protest!" he laughed. "He is like the average man—he makes plenty of fuss and racket but doesn't do anything that will really correct the trouble. And the trouble continues—just as we are doing."

Another bellow, and fiercer, came from the bull—and he began to trot slowly toward them.

"He's coming!" exclaimed Stephanie, beginning to run.

"Make for the nearest fence!" counselled Porshinger, and stopped.

The bull kept straight on until he was within a few feet of Porshinger—then he paused, pawed the earth again, and let out another bellow.

Stephanie, glancing over her shoulder, saw the situation and halted.

"Come on, Mr. Porshinger!" she called.

"Get over the fence!" he answered sharply, not taking his eyes off the angry beast.

"I shall get to the fence when you——"

The rest was drowned in the voice of the bull. He let out a terrific roar and charged straight at the man before him.

Stephanie gave a shriek of terror.

Porshinger sprang swiftly aside—and the bull tossed the air instead of the man. When his head came up he saw only Stephanie in front of him, and bellowing again he bore down upon her at full speed.

"Run! Run!" cried Porshinger, as he raced across the field in pursuit.

Stephanie stood as if petrified.

"Run!" yelled Porshinger again. "For the love of God, run!"

With the enraged brute almost upon her, she came suddenly to life. Sweeping up her narrow skirts above her knees, she turned and fled. She could hear the thundering of the hoofs behind her, and drawing closer and closer, while the fence seemed far, far away. She heard Porshinger's cries, and knew that he was trying to divert the bull and to help her in the only way he could. The fence was nearer now—and so were the hoof-beats behind her. She dared not glance back—and yet the temptation was well-nigh irresistible. How close was the bull! How close was the bull!—Would she reach the fence in time?—Would she reach the fence in time?—

It was well for Stephanie that she was fond of athletics and sports and was still given to taking regular exercise. And she ran as she had never run, her breath coming in gasps—corsets are not made for such strenuosity—until the blood seemed to congest in her head and her heart, and black spots floated before her eyes. There was a last frightful moment—the hoof-beats were pounding at her heels—the fence was just ahead, a stout rail fence.—Would she reach it?—could she spring over it if she did reach it?

Then her hands closed upon a post. And not caring how she managed it, nor what might be the exposÉ, she sprang somehow—and fell—and got across just as the bull came crashing into the panel. Then she collapsed in a heap on the ground, while the huge beast roared and foamed in baffled rage a few feet distant.

As Porshinger vaulted the fence farther down, Stephanie recovered herself and, pushing down her skirts, sat up.

"You're not hurt?" he cried breathlessly.

"Not hurt—except in my vanity!" she laughed. "It's punctured badly."

"Just so you aren't punctured," he returned. "It was a close call! You and the bull were right together at the fence—I couldn't tell whether he tossed you over, or whether you jumped. You looked as though——"

"Please forget how I looked!" she smiled. "And hand me my hat. Now if you will you may help me up.—Thank you, Mr. Porshinger."

She was seriously shaken, and he saw it.

"Come over and sit down," he said, leading her toward a rock near by. "You will feel better for a moment's rest."

"No—I'm all right," she answered;—"but I will sit down until I've put on my hat. It's a fortunate thing the fence held. Ough!" she shivered, with a glance at the bull, who was still pawing the ground in baffled rage, and frothing at the mouth. "It was a fearful feeling with those awful horns just behind me, and expecting every instant to be gored and tossed."

"It must have been fearful," he sympathized.

"Why is it," she said with a quizzical smile, "that a woman is always afraid of a bull and a mouse?"

"They wish to be extreme, I fancy!" he laughed.

"Also there is a lot between a bull and a mouse that they are afraid of!" she added.

"Animate or inanimate?" he asked.

"Both," she answered.

Her hair was awry and she straightened it as best she could, removing her gloves to do it the better.

He remarked the long, slender fingers, with the filbert nails and the crescents shining at their base—and he stole a look at his own ill-shaped hand, with its thick, formless, heavy-pointed fingers and hairy back. For the first time he regretted the difference.

Her hair temporarily put to rights, she stuck the pins—which were scattered on the ground and which Porshinger collected for her—in her cocked hat, and fastened it into place. Then she got up, suffered him to brush the dust and dirt from her clothes—she helping—and they resumed the walk.

"Adieu, your Taurus Majesty!" she called, with a farewell wave of her hand toward the still indignant and frowning bull.

"I'll see that he is killed to-day," Porshinger volunteered.

"Indeed, you'll not," she said. "He was defending his own pasture and his own kind. You would have done the same if you were a bull."

Porshinger winced despite himself. There was something distinctly unpleasant in the comparison. She had not called him a bull. Yet that, doubtless, was what she considered him—uncouth and untamed, not broken to polite society.

"I suppose so," he said thoughtfully. "It may be an apt comparison."

"What is an apt comparison?" she asked.

"Comparing me to the bull!"

"Preserve me then from you, if it is apt!" she laughed. "I want no more bulls in mine."

Was he making sport of her or was he serious, she wondered?—and could not decide. Reading his every action through her knowledge of his declared purpose to injure Pendleton and her, she was prone to suspicion. True, he had done what he could to save her from the bull's attack, but any man, were he only half a man, could not have done less.

"Is that an invocation?" he asked.

She looked at him questioningly.

"Is a bull amenable to invocation?" she replied. "Will he withhold his attack if you pray—very hard?"

She had touched the matter rather closely; and he, not knowing that she knew, was puzzled at its significance. While she, seeing that she had ventured almost too far, tactfully changed the conversation.

They regained the highway, a little farther on, and tramped rapidly homeward. At the entrance to Criss-Cross, Stephanie stopped and held out her hand.

"It is too early in the morning to ask you in," she said. "My hostess won't be visible as yet. She's not an early rambler—like we are, Mr. Porshinger. Thank you for saving me from that horrid bull."

"And a less strenuous time on our next walk," he replied, bowing awkwardly over her hand. "You do walk 'most every morning, don't you, Mrs. Lorraine?"

"Every morning that it is convenient," she answered.

"Will it be convenient to-morrow morning?" he asked.

"Not to-morrow," she replied. "I've something else on," and with a little nod she turned away and went up the drive to the house.

"Send my breakfast up in half an hour," she said to the butler, as she passed through the hall.

Once in her room, she rang for a maid, got out of her dusty walking suit and into the grateful shower bath—having first protected her hair with a rubber cap. Then she dressed, put on a flowing silk kimono, and went in to her breakfast, which the servant was just laying on the table by the window.

In the midst of it, there was a knock on the door and Gladys entered.

"Had your breakfast?" Stephanie inquired.

"An hour ago," Gladys replied. "You take the early morning hours to walk; I take them for my correspondence and household orders. You win this time—it was a beautiful morning. Where did you go?"

"Out the Churchville road, across the path through the Overton property to the Henrystown road, and home."

"The path through the Overton property!" exclaimed Gladys. "I forgot to warn you that they are using those fields for pasturing cattle, with a vicious bull among them. Did you see him?"

"Yes, we saw him," Stephanie answered, buttering a roll.

"Did he come close?"

"Fairly close!"

"Weren't you frightened?" Gladys asked.

"A trifle."

"I should have been scared stiff."

"On the contrary," said Stephanie, tapping an egg with the tip of her spoon, "I think you would have been scared into the quickest action you have ever known."

"What do you mean?" Gladys demanded.

"I mean that you would have made a record run for the fence," slowly measuring the salt.

"Is that what you did?"

"Precisely what I did—and I just made it."

"You just made what?"

"The fence."

"Do you mean the bull actually attacked you?"

"No—he didn't get quite close enough to actually attack—he missed me by the fraction of a hair. I went over the fence just as he banged into it. We had a nerve-racking finish—the bull and I. I won it by an eyelash."

Gladys laughed merrily.

"Your pardon, dear! But I really can't help it—the idea of you and Overton's bull sprinting it across the field! It's too ridiculous. And you won, dear, you won!" She laughed again. "All the bull could do was to stand at the fence and look."

"If he had any sense of propriety he didn't look," Stephanie remarked—"especially when I was going over. I must have resembled a Broadway beauty chorus."

"And no one but the bull on the ball-headed row!" Gladys bubbled.

"Possibly—I was in too much haste to observe whether Mr. Porshinger saw or not."

"Porshinger!" cried Gladys. "Porshinger! What in Heaven's name was he doing in Overton's pasture?"

"Walking with me!" was the demure reply.

"Walking with you!—Stephanie Lorraine, will you explain yourself?"

"Sure!" said Stephanie, and explained.

At the end, Gladys selected a tiny gold-tipped cigarette from the case on the dressing table and carefully lighted it.

"What is your plan?" she asked, from back of a thin cloud of smoke.

"I haven't any plan," Stephanie replied, pouring herself another cup of coffee. "It was only a reconnoissance, made on the spur of the moment——"

"Made on the horns of the bull! I should say," Gladys smiled. "What is your next move?"

"I don't know."

"Do you want me to ask him to Criss-Cross?"

"No—not yet."

"Well—if you do, I'll ask him," said Gladys. "We're in this thing to win, you know. But it would not be wise, I think, to have him and Montague Pendleton at the same time."

"No, decidedly no!" said Stephanie—"at least, for the present."