“I didn’t know my sister was to be here.”

“Yes; and you make twelve, counting Geraldine and me and the Pink ’uns.”

“You didn’t tell me it was to be a round-up,” repeated Duane, absently surveying his chintz-hung quarters.  “This is a pretty place you’ve given me.  Where do you get all your electric lights?  Where do you get fancy plumbing in this wilderness?”

“Our own plant,” explained the boy proudly.  “Isn’t that corking water?  Look at it—­heavenly cold and clear, or hot as hell, whichever way you’re inclined—­” turning on a silver spigot chiselled like a cherub.  “That water comes from Cloudy Lake, up there on that dome-shaped mountain.  Here, stand here beside me, Duane, and you can see it from your window.  That’s the Gilded Dome—­that big peak.  It’s in our park.  There are a few elk on it, not many, because they’d starve out the deer.  As it is, we have to cut browse in winter.  For Heaven’s sake, hurry, man!  Get into your bath and out again, or we’ll miss the trout jumping along Gray Water and Hurryon Brook.”

“Let ’em jump!” retorted Duane, forcibly ejecting his host from the room and locking the door.  Then, lighting a cigarette, he strolled into the bath room and started the water running into the porcelain tub.

He was in excellent spirits, quite undisturbed by the unexpected proximity of Rosalie Dysart or the possible renewal of their hitherto slightly hazardous friendship.  He laid his cigarette aside for the express purpose of whistling while undressing.

Half an hour later, bathed, shaved, and sartorially freshened, he selected a blue corn-flower from the rural bouquet on his dresser, drew it through his buttonhole, gave a last alluring twist to his tie, surveyed himself in the mirror, whistled a few bars, was perfectly satisfied with himself, then, unlocking the door, strolled out into the corridor.  Having no memory for direction, he took the wrong turn.

A distractingly pretty maid laid aside her sewing and rose from her chair to set him right; he bestowed upon her his most courtly thanks.  She was unusually pretty, so he thanked her again, and she dimpled, one hand fingering her apron’s edge.

“My child,” said he gravely, “are you by any fortunate chance as good as you are ornamental?”

She replied that she thought she was.

“In that case,” he said, “this is one of those rare occasions in a thankless world where goodness is amply and instantly rewarded.”

She made a perfunctory resistance, but looked after him, smiling, as he sauntered off down the hallway, rearranging the blue corn-flower in his button-hole.  At the turn by the window, where potted posies stood, he encountered Rosalie Dysart in canoe costume—­sleeves rolled up, hair loosened, becomingly tanned, and entirely captivating in her thoughtfully arranged disarray.

“Why, Duane!” she exclaimed, offering both her hands with that impulsively unstudied gesture she carefully cultivated for such occasions.