“What kind of girl?”

“Changeable.”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

But Launcelot insisted.  “You are not changeable, Judy, and you know it.”

And finally Judy gave in.  “No, I’m not, and I don’t hate you, but I hate to be told I can’t do things.”

“You will have to get used to it—­” daringly.

“Oh—­you needn’t think you can order me around, Launcelot, in that lordly way—­”

She faced him defiantly.  Her eyes were glowing with excited feeling.  She looked like a young duchess in her anger.  After the pictures, she had twisted her hair on top of her head in shining coils, and the dress she wore was a quaint mull that had been her grandmother’s, a thing of creamy folds and laces that swept the floor.  Launcelot felt suddenly very crude and impertinent to be dictating to this very stately young lady.  But her next remark made her a child again, and brought him confidence.

“I have always had my own way—­and I shall do as I please.”

Launcelot got up lazily.  “All right,” he said, and held out his hand, “good-bye.  I promised mother that I wouldn’t be late.”

But Judy did not seem to see the hand.  She leaned against one of the big pillars indifferently, and looked out over the garden, Launcelot waited a moment, and then his hand dropped.

“Oh, I suppose you and I will have to quarrel now and then,” he said, “we are both so obstinate,” and he smiled to himself as Judy frowned darkly at the word, “but I don’t see any use in doing it now, when we have had such a nice day—­”

With one of her quick changes of mood Judy beamed on him.  “Oh, hasn’t it been nice,” she said.  And then she held out her hand.  “Good-bye,” she smiled.

But as he went down the path she called after him.

“If you meet Tommy Tolliver, tell him I want to see him.”

He stopped.  “What do you want him for?” he asked, suddenly suspicious.

“I sha’n’t tell you.”

“You needn’t think you can get him to take you to the gipsy camp,” said Launcelot.

“He will take me if I ask him.”

“No, he won’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I shall tell him beforehand that if he takes you out there I shall thrash him within an inch of his life.”

“What?” gasped Judy.

“I shall do it,” said Launcelot, and as he swung down the path, Judy, looking after the straight, strong figure, knew that his threat was not an idle one.

And yet, after all, if it had not been for Launcelot, Judy would never have gone to the camp.  She had debated the question and had decided that the game was not worth the candle.  She had approached Tommy Tolliver, and his numerous excuses convinced her that Launcelot had been before her.  She had hinted her wishes to Anne, only to be met by that virtuous maiden with “Oh, Judy, I should be afraid—­they look so dark and wild—­and besides we ought not to go—­” She even suggested a drive to the camp to the Judge, but he had said:  “It is not a place for you, my dear,” as if that settled the question.