Chapter 3

"As I really am?" she repeated. "But, Messieurs, am I not what you see
before you?"

The music began again; the Louvain student, a little tipsy but very
decorous, arose, bowed to the girl Philippa, bowed to Halkett and to
Warner, and asked for the honor of a dance with her.

"Merci, Monsieur--another time, perhaps," she replied indifferently.

The boy seemed disposed to linger, but he was not quarrelsome, and
finally Halkett got up and led him away.

From moment to moment Warner, glancing across during his tete-a-tete
with the girl Philippa, could see the Louvain student continually
shaking hands with Halkett who seemed horribly bored.

A little later still the entire Louvain delegation insisted on
entertaining Halkett with beer and song; and the resigned but polite
Englishman, now seated at their table, was being taught to sing "La
Brabanconne," between draughts of Belgian beer.

The girl Philippa played with the stem of her glass and stirred the ice
in it with her broken wheat straw. The healthy color in her face had now
faded to an indoor pallor again under the rouge.

"So you are a painter," she said, her grey eyes fixed absently on her
glass. "Are you a distinguished painter, Monsieur?"

He laughed:

"You'll have to ask others that question, Philippa."

"Why? Don't you know whether you are distinguished?"

"I've had some success," he admitted, amused.

She thought a moment, then leaned forward toward the Louvain table.

"Mr. Halkett," she called in English. "Is Mr. Warner a distinguished
American painter?"

Halkett laughed.

"One of the most celebrated American painters of the day!"

The Louvain students, understanding, rose as a man, waved their glasses,
and cheered for Warner, the "_grand peintre Americain_." Which
embarrassed and annoyed him so that his face grew brighter than the
paint on Philippa's lips.

"I'm sorry," she said, noticing his annoyance. "I did not mean to make
you conspicuous."

Everybody in the cafe was now looking at him; on every side he gazed
into amused and smiling faces, saw glasses lifted, heard the cries of
easily aroused Gallic enthusiasm.

"Vive le grand peintre Americain! Vive l'Amerique du Nord!"

"This is tiresome!" exclaimed Philippa. "Let us walk down to the river
and sit in one of our boats. I should really like to talk to you
sensibly--unless you are too much annoyed with me."

She beckoned a waiter to bring her apron; and she put it on.

"When you are ready, Monsieur," she said serenely.

So they rose; Warner paid the bill, and, with a whimsical smile at
Halkett, walked out beside Philippa through one of the rear doors, and
immediately found himself in brightest sunshine, amid green trees and
flower beds.

Here, under the pitiless sky, the girl's face became ghastly under its
rouged mask--the more shocking, perhaps, because her natural skin, if
pale, appeared to be smooth and clear; and the tragic youth of her
seemed to appeal to all out of doors from the senseless abuse it was
enduring.

To see her there in the freshness of the open breeze, sunshine and
shadow dappling the green under foot, the blue overhead untroubled by a
cloud, gave Warner a slightly sick sensation.

"The air is pleasant," she remarked, unconscious of the effect she had
on him.

He nodded. They walked down the grassy slope to the river bank, where
rows of boats lay moored. A few were already in use out on the calm
stream; young men in their shirt sleeves splashed valiantly at the oars;
young women looked on under sunshades of flamboyant tints.

There was a white punt there called the _Lys_. Philippa stepped into it,
drew a key from her apron pocket, unlocked the padlock. Then, lifting
the pole from the grass, she turned and invited Warner with a gesture.

He had not bargained for this; but he tossed the chain aboard, stepped
in, and offered to take the pole.

But Philippa evidently desired to do the punting herself; so he sat
back, watching her sometimes and sometimes looking at the foliage, where
they glided swiftly along under overhanging branches and through still,
glimmering reaches of green water, set with scented rushes where dragon
flies glittered and midges danced in clouds, and the slim green frogs
floated like water sprites, partly submerged, looking at them out of
golden goblin eyes that never blinked.

"The town is _en fete_," remarked Philippa presently. "Why should I not
be too?"

Warner laughed:

"Do you call this a _fete_?"

"For me, yes." ... After a moment, turning from her pole: "Do you not
find it agreeable?"

"Certainly. What little river is this?"

"The Recollette."

"It flows by Sais, too. I did not recognize it for the same. The
Recollette is swifter and shallower below Sais."

"You know Sais, then?"

"I live there in summer."

"Oh. And in winter?"

"Paris."

An unconscious sigh of relief escaped her, that it was not necessary to
play the spy with this man. It was the other man who interested
Wildresse.

The girl poled on in silence for a while, then deftly guided the _Lys_
into the cool green shadow of a huge oak which overhung the water, the
lower branches touching it.

"The sun is warm," she observed, driving in the pole and tying the white
punt so that it could swing with the current.

She came and seated herself by Warner, smiled frankly.

"Do you know," she said, "I've never before done this for pleasure."

"What haven't you done for pleasure?" he inquired, perplexed.

"This--what I am doing."

"You mean you never before went out punting with a customer?"

"Not for the pleasure of it--only for business reasons."

He hesitated to understand, refused to, because, for all her careless
freedom and her paint, he could not believe her to be merely a _fille de
cabaret_.

"Business reasons," he repeated. "What is your business?"

"Cashier, of course."

"Well, does your business ever take you boating with customers? Is it
part of your business to dance with a customer and drink grenadine with
him?"

"Yes, but you wouldn't understand----" And suddenly she comprehended
his misunderstanding of her and blushed deeply.

"I am not a _cocotte_. Did you think I meant that?"

"I know you are not. I didn't know what you meant."

There was a silence; the color in her cheeks cooled under the rouge.

"It happened this way," she said quietly. "I didn't want to make it a
matter of business with you. Even in the beginning I didn't.... You
please me.... After all, the town is _en fete_.... After all, a girl
has a right to please herself once in her life.... And business is a
very lonely thing for the young.... Why shouldn't I amuse myself for an
hour with a client who pleases me?"

"Are you doing it?"

"Yes. I never before knew a distinguished painter--only noisy boys from
the schools, whose hair is uncut, whose conversation is _blague_, and
whose trousers are too baggy to suit me. They smoke soldier's tobacco,
and their subjects of discussion are not always _convenable_."

He said, curiously:

"As for that, you must hear much that is not _convenable_ in the
cabaret."

"Oh, yes. I don't notice it when it is not addressed to me.... Please
tell me what you paint--if I am permitted to ask."

"Soldiers."

"Only soldiers?"

"Portraits, sometimes, and landscapes out of doors--anything that
appeals to me. Do pictures interest you?"

"I used to go to the Louvre and the Luxembourg when I was a child. It
was interesting. Did you say that you would like to make a portrait of
me?"

"I said that if I ever did make a portrait of you I'd paint you _as you
really are_."

Her perplexed gaze had the disconcerting directness of a child's.

"I don't understand," she said.

"Shall I explain?"

"If you would be so kind."

"You won't be offended?"

She regarded him silently; her brows became slightly contracted.

"Such a man as you would not willingly offend, I think."

"No, of course not. I didn't mean that sort of thing. But you might not
like what I have to say."

"If I merit what you say about me, it doesn't matter whether I like it
or not, does it? Tell me."

He laughed:

"Well, then, if I were going to paint you, I'd first ask you to wash
your cheeks."

She sat silent, humiliated, the painful color deepening and waning under
the rouge.

"And," he continued pleasantly, "after your face had been well scrubbed,
I'd paint you in your black gown, cuffs and apron of a _caissiere_, just
as I first saw you there behind the desk, one foot swinging, and your
cheek resting on your hand.

"But behind your eyes, which looked out so tranquilly across the tumult
of the cabaret, I'd paint a soul as clean as a flame.... I'm wondering
whether I'd make any mistake in painting you that way, Philippa?"

The girl Philippa had fixed her grey eyes on him with fascinated but
troubled intensity. They remained so for a while after he had finished
speaking.

Presently, and partly to herself, she said:

"_Pour ca_--no. So far. But it has never before occurred to me that I
look like a _cocotte_."

She turned, and, resting one arm on the gunwale, gazed down into the
limpid green water.

"Have you a fresh handkerchief?" she asked, not turning toward him.

"Yes--but----"

"Please! I must wash my face."

She bent swiftly, dipped both hands into the water, and scrubbed her
lips and cheeks. Then, extending her arm behind her for the
handkerchief, she dried her skin, sat up again, and faced him with
childish resignation. A few freckles had become visible; her lips were
no longer vivid, and there now remained only the faintest tint of color
under her clear, cool skin.

"You see," she said, "I'm not attractive unless I help nature. One
naturally desires to be thought attractive."

"On the contrary, you are exceedingly attractive!"

"Are you sincere?"

"Perfectly."

"But I have several freckles near my nose. And I am pale."

"You are entirely attractive," he repeated, laughing.

"With my freckles! You are joking. Also, I have no pink in my cheeks
now." She shrugged. "However--if you like me this way----" She
shrugged again, as though that settled everything.

Another punt passed them; she looked after it absently. Presently she
said, still watching the receding boat:

"Do you think you'll ever come again to the Cafe Biribi?"

"I'll come expressly to see you, Philippa," he replied.

To his surprise the girl blushed vividly and looked away from him; and
he hastily took a different tone, somewhat astonished that such a girl
should not have learned long ago how to take the irresponsible badinage
of men. Certainly she must have had plenty of opportunity for such
schooling.

"When I'm in Ausone again," he said seriously, "I'll bring with me a
canvas and brushes. And if Monsieur Wildresse doesn't mind I'll make a
little study of you. Shall I, Philippa?"

"Would you care to?"

"Very much. Do you think Monsieur Wildresse would permit it?"

"I do what I choose."

"Oh!"

She misunderstood his amused exclamation, and she flushed up.

"My conduct has been good--so far," she explained. "Everybody knows it.
The _prix de la rosiere_ is not yet beyond me. If a girl determines to
behave otherwise, who can stop her, and what? Not her parents--if she
has any; not bolts and keys. No; it is understood between Monsieur
Wildresse and me that I do what I choose. And, Monsieur, so far I have
not chosen--indiscreetly----" She looked up calmly. "----In spite of
my painted cheeks which annoyed you----"

"I didn't mean----"

"I understand. You think that it is more _comme il faut_ to exhibit
one's freckles to the world than to paint them out."

"It's a thousand times better! If you only knew how pretty you
are--just as you are now--with your soft, girlish skin and your chestnut
hair and your enchanting grey eyes----"

"Monsieur----"

The girl's rising color and her low-voiced exclamation warned him again
that detached and quite impersonal praises from him were not understood.

"Philippa," he explained with bored but smiling reassurance, "I'm merely
telling you what a really pretty girl you are; I'm not paying court to
you. Didn't you understand?"

The grey eyes were lifted frankly to his; questioned him in silence.

"In America a man may say as much to a girl and mean nothing
more--important," he explained. "I'm not trying to make love to you,
Philippa. Were you afraid I was?"

She said slowly:

"I was not exactly--_afraid_."

"I don't do that sort of thing," he continued pleasantly. "I don't make
love to anybody. I'm too busy a man. Also, I would not offend you by
talking to you about love."

She looked down at her folded hands. Since she had been with him
nothing had seemed very real to her, nothing very clear, except that for
the first time in her brief life she was interested in a man on whom she
was supposed to be spying.

The Gallic and partly morbid traditions she had picked up in such a
girlhood as had been hers were now making for her an important personal
episode out of their encounter, and were lending a fictitious and
perhaps a touching value to every word he uttered.

But more important and most significant of anything to her was her own
natural inclination for him. For her he already possessed immortal
distinction; he was her first man.

She was remembering that she had gone to him after exchanging a glance
with Wildresse, when he had first asked her to dance. But she had
needed no further persuasion to sit with him at his table; she had even
forgotten her miserable role when she asked him to go out to the river
with her. The significance of all this, according to her Gallic
tradition, was now confronting her, emphasizing the fact that she was
still with him.

As she sat there, her hands clasped in her lap, the sunlit reality of it
all seemed brightly confused as in a dream--a vivid dream which casts a
deeper enchantment over slumber, holding the sleeper fascinated under
the tense concentration of the happy spell. Subconsciously she seemed to
be aware that, according to tradition, this conduct of hers must be
merely preliminary to something further; that, in sequence, other
episodes were preparing--were becoming inevitable. And she thought of
what he had said about making love.

Folding and unfolding her hands, and looking down at them rather
fixedly, she said:

"Apropos of love--I have never been angry because men told me they were
in love with me.... Men love; it is natural; they cannot help it. So,
if you had said so, I should not have been angry. No, not at all,
Monsieur."

"Philippa," he said smilingly, "when a girl and a man happen to be alone
together, love isn't the only entertaining subject for conversation, is
it?"

"It's the subject I've always had to listen to from men. Perhaps that
is why I thought--when you spoke so amiably of my--my----"

"Beauty," added Warner frankly, "--because it _is_ beauty, Philippa.
But I meant only to express the pleasure that it gave to a painter--yes,
and to a man who can admire without offense, and say so quite as
honestly."

The girl slowly raised her eyes.

"You speak very pleasantly to me," she said. "Are other American men
like you?"

"You ought to know. Aren't you American?"

"I don't know what I am."

"Why, I thought--your name was Philippa Wildresse."

"I am called that."

"Then Monsieur Wildresse isn't a relation?"

"No. I wear his name for lack of any other.... He found me somewhere,
he says.... In Paris, I believe.... That is all he will tell me."

"Evidently," said Warner in his pleasant, sympathetic voice, "you have
had an education somewhere."

"He sent me to school in England until I was sixteen.... After that I
became cashier for him."

"He gave you his name, and he supports you.... Is he kind to you?"

"He has never struck me."

"Does he protect you?"

"He uses me in business.... I am too valuable to misuse."

The girl looked down at her folded hands. And even Warner divined what
ultimate chances she stood in the Cabaret de Biribi.

"When I'm in Ausone again, I'll come to see you," he said pleasantly.
"--Not to make love to you, Philippa," he added with a smile, "but just
because we have become such good friends out here in the _Lys_."

"Yes," she said, "friends. I shall be glad to see you. I shall always
try to understand you--whatever you say to me."

"That's as it should be!" he exclaimed heartily. "Give me your hand on
it, Philippa."

She laid her hand in his gravely. They exchanged a slight pressure.
Then he glanced at his watch, rose, and picked up the pole.

"I've got to drive to Sais in time for dinner," he remarked. "I'm
sorry, because I'd like to stay out here with you."

"I'm sorry, too," she said.

The next moment the punt shot out into the sunny stream.

*CHAPTER IV*

Warner and the girl Philippa reentered the Cabaret de Biribi together
the uproar had become almost deafening. Confetti was thrown at them
immediately, and they advanced all a-flutter with brilliant tatters.

The orchestra was playing, almost everybody was dancing, groups at
tables along the edge of the floor sang, clinked glasses, and threw
confetti without discrimination. The whole place--tables, floor,
chandeliers, and people--streamed with multi-colored paper ribbons.
Waiters swept it in heaps from the dancing floor.

Philippa entered the cashier's enclosure and dismissed the woman in
charge. Seated once more on her high chair she opened her reticule and
produced a small mirror. Then she leaned far over her counter toward
Warner.

"Is it permitted me to powder my nose?" she whispered with childlike
seriousness; but she laughed when he did, and, still laughing, made him
a gay little gesture of adieu with her powder puff.

He stood looking at her for a moment, where she sat on her high chair
behind the cage, intently occupied with her mirror, oblivious to the
tumult around her. Then, the smile still lingering on his features, he
turned to look for his new acquaintance, Halkett.

Old man Wildresse sidled up to the cashier's desk, opened the wicket,
and went inside. Philippa, still using her tiny mirror, was examining a
freckle very seriously.

"Eh, bien?" he growled. "Rien?"

"Nothing!"

"Drop that glass and talk!" he said harshly.

She turned and looked at him.

"I tell you it was silly to suspect such a man!" she said impatiently.
"In my heart I feel humiliated that you should have set me to spy on
him----"

"What's that!"

"No, I've had enough! I don't like the role; I never liked it! Are
there no police in France----"

"Little idiot!" he said. "Will you hold your tongue?"

"It is a disgusting _metier_----"

"Damnation! Hold your tongue!" he repeated. "We've got to do what the
Government tells us to do, haven't we?"

"Not I! Never again----"

"Yes, you will! Do you hear? Yes, you will, or I'll twist your neck!
Now, I'm going to keep my eye on that other gentleman. Granted that the
man you pumped is all right, I'm not so sure about the other, who seems
to be an Englishman. I'm going over to stand near him. By and by I'll
address him. And if I wink at you, leave your _caisse_ with Melanie,
come over, and sit at their table again----"

"No!"

"Yes, you will!"

"No!"

"Yes, you will. And you'll also contrive it so the Englishman asks you
to dance. Do you hear what I say? And you'll find out where he comes
from, and when he arrived in Ausone, and where he is going, and whatever
else you can worm out of him!" He glared at her. "Disobey if you
dare," he added.

She was silent.

After a moment he continued in a softer voice:

"Do you want to see me in prison and my son in New Caledonia? Very
well, then; do what the Government tells you to do."

"I--I've done enough--filthy work----" she stammered. "Why must I? I
have never done anything wrong----"

"Did you hear what I said? Do you want to see Jacques in Noumea?"

"No," she said sullenly.

"Then do what I tell you, or, by God, they'll ship him there and me
too!"

And he clasped his hands behind his back, peered sideways at her,
shrugged, and went shuffling out of the enclosure.

Groups at various tables were singing and shouting; the floor seethed
with sweating dancers. On the edge of this vortex the girl Philippa,
from her high chair, looked darkly across the tumult toward the table
where Halkett sat.

Something seemed to be happening there; she could see Wildresse
gesticulating vigorously; she saw Warner making his way toward his
friend, who was seated alone at a table, a lighted cigarette balanced
between his fingers and one arm thrown carelessly around the back of the
chair on which he sat.

He was looking coolly but steadily at three men who occupied the table
next to him; Wildresse now stood between the two tables, and his
emphatic gesticulations were apparently directed toward these three men;
but in the uproar, and although he also appeared to be shouting, what he
was saying remained inaudible.

Warner went over and seated himself beside Halkett; and now he could
distinguish the harsh voice of the Patron raised in irritation:

"No politics! I'll not suffer political disputes in my cabaret!" he
bawled. "Quarrels arise from such controversies. I'll have no quarrels
in my place. Now, Messieurs, _un peu de complaisance_!"

One of the men he was exhorting leaned wide in his seat and looked
insolently across at Halkett.

"It was the Englishman's fault," he retorted threateningly. "I and my
friends here had been speaking of the assassination of the Archduke
Francis Ferdinand in Serajevo. We were conversing peaceably and
privately among ourselves, when that Englishman laughed at us----"

"You are mistaken," said Halkett quietly.

"Did you not laugh?" cried the second of the men at the next table.

"Yes, but not at what you were saying. I'm sorry if you thought so----"

The man half rose in his chair, exclaiming:

"Why shouldn't I think it natural for an Englishman to laugh at the
murder of an Austrian arch-duke----"

"Stop that discussion!" cried Wildresse, angrily jerking his heavy head
from Halkett to the three men at the other table. "Let it rest where it
is, I tell you! The English gentleman says he did not laugh at what you
were saying. Nom de Dieu! Nobody well brought up laughs at murder!"
And to Halkett and Warner: "Be amiable enough, gentlemen, to carry this
misunderstanding no further. I've had sufficient trouble with the
police in my time."

Warner laid one hand lightly on Halkett's arm.

"All right," he said to Wildresse; "no trouble shall originate with us."
And, to Halkett, in a lowered voice: "Have you an idea that those men
over there are trying to force a quarrel?"

"Of course."

"Have you ever seen them before?"

"Not one of them."

Warner's lips scarcely moved as he said:

"Is it the matter of the envelope?"

"I think so. And, Warner, I don't intend to drag you into any----"

"Wait. Are you armed?"

Halkett shook his head.

"That's no good," he said. "I can't afford to do anything conspicuous.
If I'm involved with the authorities I'm done for, and I might just as
well be knocked on the head." After a moment he added: "I think perhaps
you'd better say good-by to me now, Warner----"

"Why?"

"Because, if they manage to force a quarrel, I don't mean to have you
involved----"

"Do you really expect me to run away?" asked Warner, laughing.

Halkett looked up at him with a faint smile:

"I'm under very heavy obligations to you already----"

"You are coming to Sais with me."

"Thanks so much, but----"

"Come on, Halkett. I'm not going to leave you here."

"My dear chap, I'll wriggle out somehow. I've done it before. After
all, they may not mean mischief."

Warner turned and looked across at the three men. Two were whispering
together; the third, arms folded, was staring truculently at Halkett out
of his light blue eyes.

Warner turned his head and said quietly to Halkett:

"I take two of them to be South Germans or Austrians. The other might be
Alsatian. Do any of these possible nationalities worry you?"

"Exactly," said Halkett coolly.

"In other words, any trouble you may expect is likely to come from
Germans?"

"That's about it."

Warner lighted a cigarette.

"Shall we try a quiet getaway?" he asked.

"No; I'll look out for myself. Clear out, Warner, there's a good
fellow----"

"Don't ask me to do a thing that you wouldn't do," retorted Warner
sharply. "Come on; I'm going to drive you to Sais."

Halkett flushed.

"I shan't forget how decent you've been," he said. They summoned the
waiter, paid the reckoning, rose, and walked leisurely toward the door.

At the _caissiere's_ desk they turned aside to say good-night to
Philippa.

The girl looked up from her accounts, pencil poised, gazing at Warner.

"_Au revoir_, Philippa," he said, smilingly.

The girl's serious features relaxed; she nodded to him gayly, turned,
still smiling, to include Halkett. And instantly a swift change altered
her face; she half rose from her chair, arm outstretched.

"What is that man doing behind you!" she cried out--too late to avert
what she saw coming. For the man close behind Halkett had dexterously
passed a silk handkerchief across his throat from behind and had jerked
him backward; and, like lightning, two other men appeared on either side
of him, tore his coat wide, and thrust their hands into his breast
pockets.

Warner pivoted on his heel and swung hard on the man with the silk
handkerchief, driving him head-on into the table behind, which fell with
a crash of glassware. Halkett, off his balance, fell on top of the
table, dragging with him one of the men whose hand had become entangled
in his breast pocket.

The people who had been seated at the table were hurled right and left
among the neighboring tables; a howl of anger and protest burst from the
crowd; there came a shout of "_Cochon_!"--a rush to see what had
happened; people mounted on chairs, waiters arrived, running. Out of
the melee Halkett wriggled and rose, coughing, his features still
crimson from partial strangulation. Warner caught his arm in a grip of
iron and whisked him out of the door. The next instant they were
engulfed in the crowds thronging the market square.

Warner, thoroughly aroused and excited, still maintained his grip on
Halkett's arm.

"Did you ever see anything like it?" he said in a low voice. "It came
like a bolt from the sky. That was the _Coup du Pere Francois_. Did
they get anything from you?"

Halkett spoke with difficulty, pressing his throat with his fingers and
trying to smile.

"What they got," he said, "was meant for them to get--time-tables and a
ticket to Paris. I don't intend to travel that way----" A fit of
coughing shook him. "----For a moment I thought they'd actually broken
my neck. What did you do to that fellow with his noose?"

"He fell on the table behind you. Everybody was piled up with the
crockery. You wriggled out like a lizard." He turned cautiously and
looked back over his shoulder. "Do you think we have been followed?"

"I can't see that we are."

They entered the rue d'Auros and turned into the Hotel Boule d'Argent.
Warner sent a chasseur to the stables for his horse and dogcart; Halkett
hastened to collect his luggage.

In a few minutes the horse and cart came rattling out of the mews;
luggage, canvases, and the sack of colors were placed in the boot;
Warner mounted, taking reins and whip; Halkett sprang up beside him, and
the groom freed the horse's head.

Into the almost deserted Boulevard d'Athos they went at a lively clip,
circled the lovely church of Sainte Cassilda at the head of it, and
trotted out into the broad highroad which swings cast to the river
Recollette, and follows that pretty little stream almost due south to
the hills and cliffs and woods and meadows of Sais.

The sun hung low above the fields, reddening the roadside bushes and
painting the tall ranks of poplars with vivid streaks of gold and rose.

Just outside the remains of the old town wall they passed through a
suburban hamlet. That, except for a farm or two more, included the last
houses this side of Sais.

For a little while neither of the young men spoke; Halkett's cough had
ceased, but now and then he fidgeted with his collar as though to ease
it from the bruised throat. Warner drove, looking straight between his
horse's ears, as though intently preoccupied with his navigation.

After a while Halkett said:

"The envelope is safe, I take it:"

"Oh, yes. They never noticed me until I hit one of them."

"I'm so grateful," said Halkett, "that it's quite useless for me to try
to say so----"

"Listen! I'm enjoying it. I'm grateful to _you_, Halkett, for giving
me the opportunity. I needed touching up." He laughed in sheer
exhilaration. "We stodgy professional people ought to be stirred out of
our ruts, A little mix-up like that with a prospect of others is exactly
what I needed."

Halkett smiled rather dryly.

"Oh," he said. "If it strikes you that way, I shall feel much
relieved."

"Relieve yourself of all embarrassment," returned Warner gayly. "If our
acquaintance entails further scraps with those gentlemen, I shall be
merely the more grateful to you."

They both laughed; Warner swung his long whip like a fly rod and caught
the loop cleverly on his whip-stock.