“Did you really see an otter, Scott?”

“Yes, I did!” he exclaimed.  “Out in the Gray Water, swimming like a dog.  That was yesterday afternoon.  It’s a scarce creature here.  I’ll tell you what, Kathleen; we’ll take our luncheon and go out and spend the day watching for it.”

“No,” she said, drying her hands on her handkerchief, “I can’t spend every minute of the day with you.  Ask some other woman.”

“What other woman?” She was gazing out at the sunlit ripples.  A little unquiet thrill leaped through her veins, but she went on carelessly: 

“Take some pretty woman out with you.  There are several here——­”

“Pretty woman,” he repeated.  “Do you think that’s the only reason I want you to come?”

“Only reason?  What a silly thing to say, Scott.  I am not a pretty woman to you—­in that sense——­”

“You are the prettiest I ever saw,” he said, looking at her; and again the unquiet thrill ran like lightning through her veins.  But she only laughed carelessly and said: 

“Oh, of course, Geraldine and I expect our big brother to say such things.”

“It has nothing to do with Geraldine or with brothers,” he said doggedly.  She strove to laugh, caught his gaze, and, discountenanced, turned toward the stream.

“We can cross on the stepping stones,” she suggested.  And after a moment:  “Are you coming?”

“See here, Kathleen,” he said, “you’re not acting squarely with me.”

“What do you mean?”

“No, you’re not.  I’m a man, and you know it.”

“Of course you are, Scott.”

“Then I wish you’d recognise it.  What’s the use of mortifying me when I act—­speak—­behave as any man behaves who—­who—­is—­fond of a—­person.”

“But I don’t mean to—­to mortify you.  What have I done?”

He dug his hands into the pockets of his riding breeches, took two or three short turns along the bank, came back to where she was standing.

“You probably don’t remember,” he said, “one night this spring when—­when—­” He stopped short.  The vivid tint in her cheeks was his answer—­a swift, disconcerting answer to an incomplete question, the remainder of which he himself had scarcely yet analysed.

“Scott, dear,” she said steadily, in spite of her softly burning cheeks, “I will be quite honest with you if you wish.  I do know what you’ve been trying to say.  I am conscious that you are no longer the boy I could pet and love and caress without embarrassment to either of us.  You are a man, but try to remember that I am several years older——­”

“Does that matter!” he burst out.

“Yes, dear, it does....  I care for you—­and Geraldine—­more than for anybody in the world.  I understand your loyalty to me, Scott, and I—­I love it.  But don’t confuse it with any serious sentiment.”

“I do care seriously.”

“You make me very happy.  Care for me very, very seriously; I want you to; I—­I need it.  But don’t mistake the kind of affection that we have for each other for anything deeper, will you?”