She forced a smile, making a sign of negation with her head, but he began to press her until his importunities and his short, abrupt laughter embarrassed her.

“I couldn’t ask anybody without permission from my hostess,” she said, striving to maintain the light, careless tone which his changing manner toward her made more difficult for her.

“Oh, come, Miss West!” he said in a loud humorous voice; “don’t pass me the prunes and prisms but be a good little sport and let a fellow come over to see you!  You never did give me half a chance to know you, but you’re hands across the table with that Ogilvy artist and Jose Querida—­”

“I’ve known them rather longer than I have you, Mr. Cardemon.”

“That’s my handicap!  I’m not squealing.  All I want is to start in the race—­”

“What race?” she asked coolly, turning on him a level gaze that, in spite of her, she could not maintain under the stare with which he returned it.  And again the slight uneasiness crept over her and involuntarily she looked around her at the woods.

“How far is it now?” she inquired.

“Are you tired?”

“No.  But I’m anxious to get back.  Could you tell me how near to some road we are?”

He halted and looked around; she watched him anxiously as he tossed his bridle over his horse’s neck and walked forward into a little glade where the late rays of the sun struck ruddy and warm on the dry grass.

“That’s singular,” he said as she went forward into the open where he stood; “I don’t seem to remember this place.”

“But you know about where we are, don’t you?” she asked, resolutely suppressing the growing uneasiness and anxiety.

“Well—­I am not perfectly certain.”  He kept his eyes off her while he spoke; but when she also turned and gazed helplessly at the woods encircling her, his glance stole toward her.

“You’re not scared, are you?” he asked, and then laughed abruptly.

“Not in the slightest.”

“Sure!  You’re a perfectly good sport....  I’ll tell you—­I’ll leave my horse for one of my men to hunt up later, and we’ll start off together on a good old-fashioned hike!  Are you game?”

“Yes—­if I only knew—­if you were perfectly sure how to get to the edge of the woods.  I don’t see how you can be lost in your own woods—­”

“I don’t believe I am!” he said, laughing violently.  “The Estwich road must be over in that direction.  Come ahead, Miss West; the birds can cover us up if worst comes to worst!”

She went with him, entering the thicker growth with a quick, vigorous little stride as though energy and rapidity of motion could subdue the misgiving that threatened to frighten her sooner or later.

Over logs, boulders, gulleys, she swung forward, he supporting her from time to time in spite of her hasty assurance that she did not require aid.

Once, before she could prevent it, he grasped her and fairly swung her across a gulley; and again, as she gathered herself to jump, his powerful arm slipped around her body and he lowered her to the moss below, leaving her with red cheeks and a rapid heart to climb the laurel-choked ravine beside him.