“Yes,” said Weary laconically, still looking into her face.  “It was.”

She stared down at him, her brows puckered.  “I know, now.  It was at the Saint Patrick’s dance in Dry Lake!  How silly of me to forget.”

Weary turned his gaze to the hill beyond the creek, and fanned his hot face with his hat.  “It was not.  It wasn’t at that dance, at all.”  Funny she didn’t remember him!  He suspected her of trying to fool him, now that he was actually in her presence, and he refused absolutely to be fooled.

He could see that she threw out her hand helplessly.  “Well, I may as well ’fess up.  I don’t remember you at all.  It’s horrid of me, when you rode up in that lovely, unconventional way.  But you see, at dances one doesn’t think of the men as individuals; they’re just good or bad partners.  It resolves itself, you see, into a question of feet.  If I should dance with you again,—­did I dance with you?”

Weary shot a quick, eloquent glance in her direction.  He did not say anything.

Miss Satterly blushed.  “I was going to say, if I danced with you again I should no doubt remember you perfectly.”

Weary was betrayed into a smile.  “If I could dance in these boots, I’d take off my spurs and try and identify myself.  But I guess I’ll have to ask yuh to take my word for it that we’re acquainted.”

“Oh, I will.  I meant to, all along.  Why aren’t you in town, celebrating?  I thought I was the only unpatriotic person in the country.”

“I just came from town,” Weary told her, choosing, his words carefully while yet striving to be truthful.  No man likes confessing to a woman that he has been run away with.  “I—­er—­broke my bridle-bit, back a few miles” (it was fifteen, if it were a rod) “and so I rode in here to get one of Joe’s.  I didn’t want to bother anybody, but Glory seemed to think this was where the trail ended.”

Miss Satterly laughed again.  “It certainly was funny—­you trying to get him away, and being so still about it.  I heard you whispering swear-words, and I wanted to scream!  I just couldn’t keep still any longer.  Is he balky?”

“I don’t know what he is—­now,” said Weary plaintively.  “He was, at that time.  He’s generally what happens to be the most dev—­mean under the circumstances.”

“Well, maybe he’ll consent to being led to the stable; he looks as if he had a most unmerciful master!” (Weary, being perfectly innocent, blushed guiltily) “But I’ll forgive you riding him like that, and make for you a pitcher of lemonade and give you some cake while he rests.  You certainly must not ride back with him so tired.”

Fresh lemonade sounded tempting, after that ride.  And being lectured was not at all what he had expected from the schoolma’am—­and who can fathom the mind of a man?  Weary gave her one complex glance, laid his hand upon the bridle and discovered that Glory, having done what mischief he could, was disposed to be very meek.  At the corral gate Weary looked back.