pretty inamorata really loves the thrill of danger. And I know damned well that Lana Helmer loves it. For when we came through without so much as sighting a muskrat, ‘What!’ says she, ‘Not a savage to be seen and not a shot fired! Lord,’ says she, ‘I had as lief take the air on Bowling Green — there being some real peril of beaux and macaronis!’“

Everything this man said now conspired to enrage me; and it was a struggle for me to restrain the bitter affront ever twitching at my lips for utterance. Perhaps I might not have restrained it any longer had I not seen Lois lean suddenly forward in her seat, shade her eyes with her hands, then stand up beside one of the boatmen. And I knew she recognized me.

Instantly within me all anger, rancour,