e get into in New
York. Broadway isn't good for a man's manners.... Will you forgive me,
Miss Carew?"

Embarrassment kept her silent; she nodded her head, and finally turned
and looked at him. His smile was agreeable.

She smiled faintly, too, and rose.

"Until later, then," he said. "This is the Gayfield road, isn't it?"

"Yes."

She turned and walked toward the house; and as though he could not
help himself he walked beside her, his hat in his hand once more.

"I like this place," he said. "I wonder if there is a hotel in
Gayfield."

"The Gayfield House."

"Is it _very_ bad?" he asked jocosely.

She seemed surprised. It was considered good, she thought.

With a slight, silent nod of dismissal she crossed the road and went
into the house, leaving him standing beside his wrecked machine once
more, looking after her out of sluggish eyes.

Presently, from the house, emerged Stull, his pasty face startling in
its pallor under the cloudless sky, and walked slowly over to
Brandes.

"Well, Ben," said the latter pleasantly, "I'm going to Gayfield to
telegraph for another car."

"How soon can they get one up?" inquired Stull, inserting a large
cigar into his slitted mouth and lighting it.

"Oh, in a couple of days, I guess. I don't know. I don't care much,
either."

"We can go on to Saratoga by train," suggested Stull complacently.

"We can stay here, too."

"What for?"

Brandes said in his tight-lipped, even voice:

"The fishing's good. I guess I'll try it." He continued to contemplate
the machine, but Stull's black eyes were turned on him intently.

"How about the races?" he asked. "Do we go or not?"

"Certainly."

"When?"

"When they send us a car to go in."

"Isn't the train good enough?"

"The fishing here is better."

Stull's pasty visage turned sourer:

"Do you mean we lose a couple of days in this God-forsaken dump
because you'd rather go to Saratoga in a runabout than in a train?"

"I tell you I'm going to stick around for a while."

"For how long?"

"Oh, I don't know. When we get our car we can talk it over and----"

"Ah," ejaculated Stull in disgust, "what the hell's the matter with
you? Is it that little skirt you was buzzing out here like you never
seen one before?"

"How did you guess, Ben?" returned Brandes with the almost
expressionless jocularity that characterised him at times.

"_That_ little red-headed, spindling, freckled, milk-fed
mill-hand----"

"Funny, ain