eemed to me unfair to let him charge into the lists of
loveliness all unarmed--with his heart behind no shield."

"And he ... how did he take your warning?" demanded Miss Buford.

"I think it is his craven idea to avoid the danger and retreat at the
first opportunity. He said that he was a painter, had even been a
cow-puncher once, but that society was beyond his powers and his
taste."

The group had been neglecting the track. Now, from the grandstand came
once more the noisy outburst that ushers the horses into the stretch,
and conversation died as the party came to its feet.

None of its members noticed for the moment the two young men who had
made their way between the chairs of the verandah until they stood
just back of the group, awaiting their turn for recognition.

As the horses crossed the wire and the pandemonium of the stand fell
away, George Steele stepped forward to present his guest.

"This is Mr. Robert Saxon," he announced. "He will paint the portraits
of you girls almost as beautiful as you really are.... It's as far as
mere art can go."

Saxon stood a trifle abashed at the form of presentation as the group
turned to greet him. Something in the distance had caught Duska
Filson's imagination-brimming eyes. She was sitting with her back
turned, and did not hear Steele's approach nor turn with the others.

Saxon's casually critical glance passed rapidly over the almost too
flawless beauty of the Preston sisters and the flower-like charm of
little Miss Buford, then fell on a slender girl in a simple pongee
gown and a soft, wide-brimmed Panama hat. Under the hat-brim, he
caught the glimpse of an ear that might have been fashioned by a
jeweler and a curling tendril of brown hair. If Saxon had indeed been
the timorous man Bellton intimated, the glimpse would have thrown him
into panic. As it was, he showed no sign of alarm.

His presentation as a celebrity had focused attention upon him in a
manner momentarily embarrassing. He found a subtle pleasure in the
thought that it had not called this girl's eyes from whatever occupied
them out beyond the palings. Saxon disliked the ordinary. His
canvases and his enthusiasms were alike those of the individualist.

"Duska," laughed Miss Buford, "come back from your dreams, and be
introduced to Mr. Saxon."

The painter acknowledged a moment of suspense. What would be her
attitude when she recognized the man who had stared at her down by the
paddock fence?