They were coolly thanking him for the invitation,—­that, from the tone in which it was given, was so evidently not meant,—­when Czar, with a joyful bark, dashed away through the grove.  A moment, and a clear, girlish voice called from among the trees that bordered the cienaga, “Whoo-ee.”  It was the signal that Sibyl always gave when she approached their camp.

James Rutlidge broke into a low laugh while Sibyl’s friends looked at each other in angry consternation as the girl, following her hail and accompanied by the delighted dog, appeared in full view; her fishing-rod in hand, her creel swung over her shoulder.

The girl’s embarrassment, when, too late, she saw and recognized their visitor, was pitiful.  As she came slowly forward, too confused to retreat, Rutlidge started to laugh again, but Aaron King, with an emphasis that checked the man’s mirth, said in a low tone, “Stop that!  Be careful!”

As he spoke, the artist arose and with Conrad Lagrange went forward to greet Sibyl in—­as nearly as they could—­their customary manner.

Formally, Rutlidge was presented to the girl; and, under the threatening eyes of the painter, greeted her with no hint of rudeness in his voice or manner; saying courteously, with a smile, “I have had the pleasure of Miss Andres’ acquaintance for—­let me see—­three years now, is it not?” he appealed to her directly.

“It was three years ago that I first saw you, sir,” she returned coolly.

“It was my first trip into the mountains, I remember,” said Rutlidge, easily.  “I met you at Brian Oakley’s home.”

Without replying, she turned to Aaron King appealingly.  “I—­I left my gloves and fly-book.  I was going fishing and called to get them.”

The artist gave her the articles with a word of regret for having so carelessly forgotten to return them to her.  With a simple “good-by” to her two friends but without even a glance toward their caller, she went back up the canyon, in the direction from which she had come.

When the girl had disappeared among the trees, James Rutlidge said, with his meaning smile, “Really, I owe you an apology for dropping in so unexpectedly.  I—­”

Conrad Lagrange interrupted him, curtly.  “No apology is due, sir.”

“No?” returned Rutlidge, with a rising inflection and a drawling note in his voice that was almost too much for the others.  “I really must be going, anyway,” he continued.  “My party will be some distance ahead.  Sure you wouldn’t care to join us?”

“Thanks!  Sorry! but we cannot this time.  Good of you to ask us,” came from Aaron King and the novelist.

“Can’t say that I blame you,” their caller returned.  “The fishing used to be fine in this neighborhood.  You must have had some delightful sport.  Don’t blame you in the least for not joining our stag party.  Delightful young woman, that Miss Andres.  Charming companion—­either in the mountains or in civilization Good-by—­see you in Fairlands, later.”