iced that smile as he
stooped. He must be snubbed a little. It would be so good for him.

"You don't happen to know Billy Evans, of Boston, do you?" he asked.

"I think not. I am but very little acquainted in Boston."

"Too bad," he went on. "I was rather in hopes you knew Billy. All
sorts of a splendid fellow, and knows everybody."

"Not quite, it seems," she reminded him, and he winced at the error.
In spite of the sly smile that he had permitted to himself, he was
unusually interested.

He tried the weather, the flood, the accident, golf, books and three
good, substantial, warranted jokes, but the conversation lagged in
spite of him. Miss Van Kamp would not for the world have it understood
that this unconventional meeting, made allowable by her wrenched
ankle, could possibly fulfill the functions of a formal introduction.

"What a ripping, queer old building that is!" he exclaimed, making one
more brave effort as they came in sight of the hotel.

"It is, rather," she assented. "The rooms in it are as quaint and
delightful as the exterior, too."

She looked as harmless and innocent as a basket of peaches as she said
it, and never the suspicion of a smile deepened the dimple in the
cheek toward him. The smile was glowing cheerfully away inside,
though. He could feel it, if he could not see it, and he laughed
aloud.

"Your crowd rather got the better of us there," he admitted with the
keen appreciation of one still quite close to college days.

"Of course, the mater is furious, but I rather look on it as a lark."

She thawed like an April icicle.

"It's perfectly jolly," she laughed with him. "Awfully selfish of us,
too, I know, but such loads of fun."

They were close to the Tutt House now, and her limp, that had entirely
disappeared as they emerged from the woods, now became quite
perceptible. There might be people looking out of the windows, though
it is hard to see why that should affect a limp.

Ralph was delighted to find that a thaw had set in, and he made one
more attempt to establish at least a proxy acquaintance.

"You don't happen to know Peyson Kingsley, of Philadelphia, do you?"

"I'm afraid I don't," she replied. "I know so few Philadelphia people,
you see." She was rather regretful about it this time. He really was a
clever sort of a fellow, in spite of that smile.

The center window in the second floor of the Tutt House swung open,
its little squares of glass flashing jubilantly in th