“But I had to speak.  You could not cross above.”

“Awfully nice of you.  Some people would have let me go away.”

“But the orchid, senor.  Do you fear to climb so high?” she inquired, with the faintest gleam of amusement at his obvious effort to prolong the conversation.

“Oh no!”

He cast about for something further to talk about, but, failing to find it, began slowly to clamber upward, supporting himself upon the natural steps afforded by the twining vine and the protuberances of the trunk itself.

When he had reached the first fork, he turned and seated himself comfortably, peering downward through the leaves for a sight of her.

“Not gone yet!” he exclaimed.  “That’s good.”

“Are you out of breath that you stop so soon?”

He nodded.  “I need to rest a minute.  Say, my name is Anthony—­Kirk Anthony.”  Then, after a pause, “I’m an American.”

“So am I, at least I am almost.  My mother was an American.”

“You don’t say!” The young man’s face lighted up with interest, and he started eagerly down the tree-trunk, but she checked him promptly.

“The orchid!”

“Oh yes!” He reseated himself.  “Well, well, I suppose your mother taught you to speak English?”

“I also attended school in Baltimore.”

Anthony dangled his legs from his perch and brushed aside a troublesome prickly pod that depended in such a position as to tickle his neck.  “I’m from Yale.  Ever been to New Haven?  What are you laughing at?”

“At you.  Do you know what it is which you are fighting from your neck?”

“This?” Kirk succeeded in locating the nettle that had annoyed him.

“Yes.  It is cow-eetch.  Wait!  By-and-by you will scratch like everything.”  The young lady laughed with the most mischievous, elf-like enjoyment of this prospect.

“All right.  Just for that, I will wait.”

Now that the first surprise of meeting was over, Kirk began a really attentive scrutiny of this delightful young person.  So far he had been conscious of little except her eyes, which had exercised a most remarkable effect upon him from the first.  He had never cared for black eyes—­they were too hard and sparkling, as a rule—­but these—­well, he had never seen anything quite like them.  They were large and soft and velvety, like—­like black pansies!  That was precisely what they were, saucy, wide-awake black pansies, the most beautiful flower in all creation; and, while they were shadowed by the intangible melancholy of the tropics, they were also capable of twinkling in the most roguish manner imaginable, as at the present moment.  Her hair was soft and fine, entirely free from the harsh lustre so common to that shade, and it grew down upon her temples in a way that completed the perfect oval of her face.  His first glimpse had told him she was ravishingly pretty, but it had failed to show how dainty and small she was.  He saw now that she was considerably below the usual height, but so perfectly proportioned that one utterly lost perspective.  Even her thick, coarse dress could not conceal the exquisite mould in which she was cast.  But her chief charm lay in a certain winsome vivacity, a willful waywardness, an ever-changing expression which showed her keenly alive and appreciative.  Even now pure mischief looked out of her eyes as she asked: