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She had more sense of humor than he, although she was scarcely less innocent; she laughed, saying, “Most boys are rough enough to their sisters. Besides, I don’t know you well enough.”

“You know me better than any one in the world does,” he answered gravely. Their young eyes met and darted away. He thought how lovely her eyes were. Not so much in color or form, perhaps, but in expression. He wished that he could see them that way again. But she had turned away. He was worried lest he might unwittingly have offended her. He knew (for his French tutor had told him) how easy it is for a man to blunder clumsily into a woman’s fine reserves and sensitive modesty; it was a great relief to have her turn swiftly toward him again and smile as she said, “But you don’t know me !”

“Maybe not; I’m asking you to give me the chance.”

“Oh! Is that why? Just to amuse you.”

“You know better,” said he, “for at least you know me.”

“That was disagreeable of me,” she admitted penitently. “I do know better. Please forgive me!”

“Then you will play it?” he said eagerly. “You know I did what you wanted. I promised to win the cup.”

His first gleam of masterful daring did not displease the girl; possibly, it obscurely gratified her. “But you must be good and win,” she said, conceding the point in the immemorial feminine fashion which would always march out of a surrendered keep with flags flying.

“I will be good and win,” repeated Willy obediently.

There fell a little silence, during which they had glimpses of soft green woods, of distant harvest-fields and of the shimmer of sunlit waves. Vagrant odors of new-mown hay were wafted to them when the breeze stirred. An oriole’s note rose out of the dim forest paths, poignantly sweet. Presently the lad spoke, not so much frightened at his own audacity as amazed at his lack of fear. “Since you are playing my sister, do you mind telling me your name? Did he say Buchanan?”

“No; Bruce-Hadden.”

His face lighted as he exclaimed boyishly, “I knew I had known you! And I have–at least, I’ve seen your picture. You are Oswald Graham’s cousin Jean.”

“Of course; and you–you are his Yankee friend at Eton, the one who fought him because he said things about America!”

“And jolly well licked I was, too,” said Willy gaily. “I didn’t even know how to put up my hands; he made a gorgeous mess of me. And then he hunted me up and took it all back. Of course we were chums after that. I was going to visit him in the holidays, but–“

“But he was drowned, trying to save a child.”

“He did save her. He always did what he set out to do. And if I had only been there–“

“I understand. He said you could swim like a duck.”

“It’s the only sport I’m not a muff at,” said Willy dismally. “It’s just my long arms. But he, he could do anything. I don’t suppose I’ll ever stop missing him. He was the only boy friend I ever had.”

“But you have men friends now,” she said gently.

“Yes.” He sat up more erect in his seat. “You saw Mr. Rivers. He’s the best ever.”

“I’ve heard about how good he is and how gruff. That’s the kind I like; no nonsense about them. I hate sissy men, don’t you?”

Willy assented, but without animation; he was diffidently searching his inner consciousness as to whether he himself had not been accused of being a sissy. “Sometimes a fellow seems a sissy when he isn’t,” he offered.

“Oh, often,” she agreed heartily; “but the man they want Moira to marry is a genuine muff, a horrid, languid-affected New Yorker who talks like a guardsman and makes fun of his own country. Moira can’t endure him; but he offers to settle half a million on her, and we let Effie marry a captain of the line who had only a thousand a year–“