“And where’s Barney?” she asked.  “One reason I came near not recognizing you was because you hadn’t your shadow along.”

“Barney is luxuriating in idleness somewhere,” I answered lightly.  “One couldn’t expect him to turn savage, just because I did.  I can’t imagine Barney working for his daily bread.”

“I can,” retorted Miss Edith, “every bit as easily as I can imagine you!  And, if you’ll pardon me, I don’t believe a word of it, either.”

On the whole, I could hardly blame her.  As she had always known me, I must have appeared to her somewhat like Solomon’s lilies.  But I did not try to convince her; there were other things more important.

I went and made my bow to Mrs. Loroman, and answered sundry questions—­more conventional, I may say, than were those of her daughter.  Mrs. Loroman was one of the best type of society dames, and I will own that I was a bit surprised to find that she was Beryl King’s aunt.  In spite of that indefinable little air of breeding that I had felt in my two meetings with Miss King, I had thought of her as distinctly a daughter of the range-land.

“I’ll introduce you to my cousin and aunt now, if you like,” Edith offered generously, in an undertone—­for the two were not ten feet from us, although Miss King had not yet seen fit to know that I was in the room.  How a woman can act so deuced innocent, beats me.

Miss King lowered her chin as much as half an inch, and looked at me as if I were an exceeding commonplace, inanimate object that could not possibly interest her.  Her aunt, Lodema King, was almost as bad, I think; I didn’t notice particularly.  But Miss King’s I-do-not-know-you-sir air could not save her; I hadn’t schemed like a villain for a week, and ridden twenty-five miles at a good fast clip after a stiff day’s work, just to be presented and walk away.  I asked her for the next waltz.

“The next waltz is promised to Mr. Weaver,” she told me freezingly.

I asked for the next two-step.

“The next two-step is also promised—­to Mr. Weaver.”

I began to have unfriendly feelings toward Mr. Weaver.  “Will you be good enough to inform what dance is not promised?” I almost finished “to Mr. Weaver,” but I’m not quite a cad, I hope.

“Really, we haven’t programs here to-night,” she parried.

I played a reckless lead.  “I wonder,” I said, looking straight down into those eyes of hers, and hoping she couldn’t suspect the prickles chasing over me at the very look of them—­“I wonder if it’s because you’re afraid to dance with me?”

“Are you so—­fearsome?” she retorted evenly, and I got back instantly: 

“It would almost seem so.”

I had the satisfaction of seeing her lip go in between her teeth. (I should like to say something about those teeth—­only it would sound like the advertisement of a dentifrice, for I should be bound to mention pearls once or twice.)