to be mere jolly young roughnecks, and just as interesting to the said stranger as the regular boys that will be present—­hardly more so.  And now, as for poor little meek you—­you will look wild and Western, understand me, but feminine; exactly like the coloured cigarette picture that says under it “Rocky Mountain Cow Girl.”  You will be in your pretty tan skirt—­be sure to have it pressed—­and a blue-striped sport bloose that I just saw in the La Mode window, and you’ll get some other rough Western stuff there, too:  a blue silk neckerchief and a natty little cow-girl sombrero—­the La Mode is showing a good one called the La Parisienne for four fifty-eight—­and the daintiest pair of tan kid gauntlets you can find, and don’t forget a pair of tan silk stockings—­’

“‘They won’t show in my riding boots,’ says Hetty, looking as if she was coming to life a little.

“‘Tush for the great, coarse, commonsense riding boots,’ I says firmly; ’you will wear precisely that neat little pair of almost new tan pumps with the yellow bows that you’re standing in now.  Do you get me?’

“‘But that would be too dainty and absurd,’ says Hetty.

“‘Exactly!’ I says, shutting my mouth hard.

“‘Why, I almost believe I do get you,’ says she, looking religiously up into the future like that lady saint playing the organ in the picture.

“‘Another thing,’ I says:  ’You are deathly afraid of a horse and was hardly ever on one but once when you were a teeny girl, but you do love the open life, so you just nerved yourself up to come.’

“‘I believe I see more clearly than ever,’ says Hetty.  She grew up on a ranch, knows more about a horse than the horse himself does, and would be a top rider most places, with the cheap help we get nowadays that can hardly set a saddle.

“‘Also from time to time,’ I goes on, ’you want to ask this Mr. D. little, timid, silly questions that will just tickle him to death and make him feel superior.  Ask him to tell you which legs of a horse the chaps go on, and other things like that; ask him if the sash that holds the horrid old saddle on isn’t so tight it’s hurting your horse.  After the lunch is et, go over to the horse all alone and stroke his nose and call him a dear and be found by the gent when he follows you over trying to feed the noble animal a hard-boiled egg and a couple of pickles or something.  Take my word for it, he’ll be over all right and have a hearty laugh at your confusion, and begin to wonder what it is about you.

“‘How about falling off and spraining my ankle on the way back?’ demands the awakening vestal with a gleam in her eye.

“‘No good,’ I says; ’pretty enough for a minute, but it would make trouble if you kept up the bluff, and if there’s one thing a man hates more than another it’s to have a woman round that makes any trouble.’

“‘You have me started on a strange new train of thought,’ says Hetty.