since your departure until
yesterday, when who should call but the Duchess of Dare!'" Percival
paused, and glanced hurriedly down the page.

"Go on!" commanded Bobby.

"It won't interest you in the slightest."

"But it _does_. Unless there's something you don't want me to
hear."

"Not at all. Where was I? Oh, yes, 'call but the Duchess of Dare! She
has let her house to some friends, and has come away from London for a
fortnight's rest. It was rather queer of her calling, wasn't it? She was
less embarrassed than you would imagine and actually had the effrontery
to mention Hortense.'"

"Who is Hortense?" asked Bobby, all curiosity.

"Her daughter."

"Well, why shouldn't her mother mention her?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Percival, in deep water; "rather bad form,
perhaps."

"For a mother to mention her own child?" Then the light dawned. "Perhaps
she is the one you were telling me about."

Percival hastily folded the letter and slipped it into its emblazoned
envelop.

"Is she?" persisted Bobby.

"Is she what?"

"The girl you let down easy?"

"Well, really, Miss Boynton--"

"Roberta," corrected Bobby.

"Very well, Roberta. It's your time to read to me. May I choose a
letter?"

"No, I'll choose one myself."

"But that isn't fair. I let you select any one you liked."

She thought it over, then somewhat reluctantly held out three envelops.
It was so evident that she was trying to keep back the bulky one with
the bold address that Percival instantly selected it.

"Some of it's secrets," she warned him, "and you mustn't peep."

"Of course not. But who is it from?"

"That wasn't in the game. I didn't ask you."

"You didn't need to; but go ahead."

"It's all about the ranch," said Bobby, looking over the pages
and smiling to herself. "They've had an awful row with the new
broncho-buster, and Hal had to punch his head for being cruel to the
horses. I knew that fellow wasn't any good." She read on for a while
to herself. "Says the shooting promises to be great this year. My! but
I hate to miss it!"

"Whatever do you find to shoot?"

"A little of everything from teal duck to Canada goose."

"Really!" exclaimed Percival, with interest. "And do you shoot?"

"Oh, yes, some. I'm not as good as the boys. You see, I have to use Pa
Joe's old No. 10 choke-bore shot-gun, when I really ought to have a
16-bore fowling-piece."

Here was a new and wholly unsuspected bond of sympathy between them.
Percival