“Not as bad as that, I guess,” he returned, extending his hand to aid her in mounting the fence, noticing that the one she gave him was delicate and shapely, and that the foot, of which he caught a glimpse, was pretty, and well-arched.  He would gladly have detained her talking in the pleasant sunshine, or even—­as time was no object, and all ways alike—­have liked to saunter on beside her, but there was no mistaking the quiet decision of her manner as she repeated her thanks and bade him good morning.

“Who the dickens was she?” he wondered idly as he leaned on the fence in his turn, and watched the graceful figure disappearing in the distance.  She walked well, he noticed, without any of the ugly tricks of gait so many women have; firm and upright, with head finely poised, and every movement a curve.  Her look and voice harmonized with her carriage; she pleased his artistic sense, and he lowered his lids a little as he watched her, as one focuses a fine picture, or statue.

The aesthetic side of Thorne’s nature was cultured to the extreme of fastidiousness; ugly, repulsive, even disagreeable things repelled him more than they do most men.  He disliked intensely any thing that grated, any thing that was discordant.  If “taste is morality,” Thorne had claims to be considered as having attained an unusual development.  His taste ruled him in most things, unless, indeed, his passions were aroused, or his will thwarted, in which case he could present angularities of character in marked contrast to the smoothness of his ordinary demeanor.

Women amused him, as a rule, more than they interested him.  He constantly sought among them that which, as yet, he had never found—­that which he was beginning to think he never should find, originality combined with unselfishness.

Even in that brief interview, Pocahontas had touched a chord in his nature no woman had ever touched before; it vibrated—­very faintly, but enough to arrest Thorne’s attention, for an instant, and to cause him to bend his ear and listen.  In some subtle way, a difference was established between her and all other women.  Her ready acceptance of his aid, her absolute lack of self-consciousness, even her calmly courteous dismissal of him, piqued Thorne’s curiosity and interest.  He reflected that in all probability he would meet her soon again, and the idea pleased him.

As he selected a cigar, the grotesque side of the adventure touched him; he smiled, and the smile broadened into a laugh as he recalled his own part in the performance.  What would Norma have said, could she have beheld him heading off sheep from a squalling little African at the command of an utterly strange young woman?