This," he added,
dragging his friend over the railing, "is Mr. Somers Duncan."

"I'm awfully glad to meet you, Miss. Wetherell," said Somers, fervently;
"to tell you the truth, I thought he was just making up yarns."

"Yarns?" repeated Cynthia, with a look that set Mr. Duncan floundering.

"Why, yes," he stammered. "Worthy said that you were up here, but I
thought he was crazy the way he talked--I didn't think--"

"Think what?" inquired Cynthia, but she flushed a little.

"Oh, rot, Somers!" said Bob, blushing furiously under his tan; "you ought
never to go near a woman--you're the darndest fool with 'em I ever saw."

This time even the painter laughed outright, and yet he was a little
sorrowful, too, because he could not be even as these youths. But Cynthia
sat serene, the eternal feminine of all the ages, and it is no wonder
that Bob Worthington was baffled as he looked at her. He lapsed into an
awkwardness quite as bad as that of his friend.

"I hope you enjoyed the game," he said at last, with a formality that was
not at all characteristic.

Cynthia did not seem to think it worth while to answer this, so the
painter tried to help him out.

"That was a fine stop you made, Mr. Worthington," he said; "wasn't it,
Cynthia?"

"Everybody seemed to think so," answered Cynthia, cruelly; "but if I were
a man and had hands like that" (Bob thrust them in his pockets), "I
believe I could stop a ball, too."

Somers laughed uproariously.

"Good-by," said Bob, with uneasy abruptness, "I've got to go into the
field now. When can I see you?"

"When you get back from the West--perhaps," said Cynthia.

"Oh," cried Bob (they were calling him), "I must see you to-night!" He
vaulted over the railing and turned. "I'll come back here right after the
game," he said; "there's only one more inning."

"We'll come back right after the game," repeated Mr. Duncan.

Bob shot one look at him,--of which Mr. Duncan seemed blissfully
unconscious,--and stalked off abruptly to second base.

The artist sat pensive for a few moments, wondering at the ways of women,
his sympathies unaccountably enlisted in behalf of Mr. Worthington.

"Weren't you a little hard on him?" he said.

For answer Cynthia got to her feet.

"I think we ought to be going home," she said.

"Going home!" he ejaculated in amazement.

"I promised Uncle Jethro I'd be there for supper," and she led the way
out of the grand stand.

So they drove back to Coniston t