Then she became argumentative.  She contended that the beautiful lawn at the Bijou was productive of strength for David, rest for Carol, amusement for Julia, and literary material for her.  Therefore, why not linger after the noisy crowd had gone,—­just idling on the long porches, strolling under the great trees?  And because Connie had a convincing way about her, it was unanimously agreed that the Bijou lawn could do everything she claimed for it, and by all means they ought to tarry a week.

It was all settled before David and Carol learned that Prince Ingram was tired of Frontier Days and had decided not to go on to Sterling, but thought he too should linger, gathering up something worth while in Fort Morgan.  Carol looked at Connie reproachfully, but the little baby sister was as imperturbable as ever.

Prince himself was all right.  Carol liked him.  David liked him, too.  And Julia was frankly enchanted with him and with his horse.  But Connie and Prince,—­that was the puzzle of it,—­Connie, fine white, immaculate in manner, in person and in thought,—­Prince, rugged and brown, born of the plains and the mountains.  Carol knew of course that Prince could move into the city, buy a fine home, join good clubs, dress like common men and be thoroughly respectable.  But to Carol he would always be a brown streak of perfect horsemanship.  Whatever could that awful Connie be thinking of?

The days passed sweetly and restfully on the Bijou lawn, but one day, most unaccountably to Connie, Prince had an appointment with his business partner down at Brush.  He would ride Ruby down and be back in time for dinner at night if it killed him.  Connie was cross about that.  She thought he should have asked her to drive him down in the car but since he did not she couldn’t very well offer her services.  What did he suppose she was hanging around that ugly little dead burg for?  Take out the literary material, Fort Morgan had nothing for Connie.  And since the literary material saw fit to absent itself, it was so many hours gone for nothing.

After he had gone, Connie decided to play a good trick on him.  He would kill himself to get back to dinner with her, would he?  Let him.  He could eat it with David and Carol, and the little Julia he so adored.  Connie would take a long drive in the car all by herself, and would not be home until bedtime.  She would teach that refractory Material a lesson.

It was a bright cloudless day, the air cold and penetrating.  Connie said it was just the day for her to collect her thought, and she could do it best of all in the car.  So if they would excuse her,—­and they did, of course.  Just as she was getting into the car she said that if she had a very exceptionally nice time, she might not come back until after dinner.  They were not to worry.  She knew the car, she was sure of herself, she would come home when she got ready.

So off she went, taking a naughty satisfaction in the good trick she was playing on that poor boy killing himself to get back for dinner with her.  An hour in the open banished her pettishness, and she drove rapidly along the narrow, twisting, unfamiliar road, finding a wild pleasure in her reckless speed.  She loved this, she loved it, she loved it.  She clapped on a little more gas to show how very dearly she did love it.