For a while he amused himself by using his curious power, alternately
waking the squirrel and allowing it to bound off, tail twitching, and
then calling it back, slowly but inexorably to climb his trousers and
curl up on his knee and sleep an uncanny and deep sleep which might end
only at the young man’s pleasure.

He, too, began to feel the subtle stillness of the drowsing woodland;
musing there, caressing his short, crisp mustache, he watched the purple
grackle walking about in iridescent solitude, the sun spots waning and
glowing on the grass; he heard the soft, garrulous whimper of waterfowl
along the water’s edge, the stir of leaves above.

He thought of various personal matters: his poverty, the low ebb of his
balance at the bank, his present profession, his approaching début as an
entertainer, the chances of his failure. He thought, too, of the
astounding change in his life, the future, vacant of promise, devoid of
meaning, a future so utterly new and blank that he could find in it
nothing to speculate upon. He thought also, and perfectly impersonally,
of a girl whom he had met now and then upon the stairs of the apartment
house which he now inhabited.

Evidently there had been an ebb in her prosperity; the tumble of a New
Yorker’s fortune leads from the Avenue to the Eighties, from thence
through Morristown, Staten Island, to the West Side. Besides, she painted
pictures; he knew the aroma of fixitive, siccative, and burnt sienna; and
her studio adjoined his sky drawing-room.

He thought of this girl quite impersonally; she resembled a youthful
beauty he had known–might still know if he chose; for a man who can pay
for his evening clothes need never deny himself the society he was bred
to.

She certainly did resemble that girl–she had the same bluish violet
eyes, the same white and deeply fringed lids, the same free grace of
carriage, a trifle too boyish at times–the same firmly rounded, yet
slender, figure.

“Now, as a matter of fact,” he mused aloud, stroking the sleeping
squirrel on his knee, “I could have fallen in love with either of those
girls–before Copper blew up.”

Pursuing his innocuous meditation he nodded to himself: “I rather like
the poor one better than any girl I ever saw. Doubtless she paints
portraits over solar prints. That’s all right; she’s doing more than I
have done yet…. I approve of those eyes of hers; they’re like the eyes
of that waking Aphrodite in the Luxembourg. If she would only just look
at me once instead of looking through me when we pass one another in the
hall—-“

The deadened gallop of a horse on the bridle path caught his ear. The
horse was coming fast–almost too fast. He laid the sleeping squirrel on
the bench, listened, then instinctively stood up and walked to the
thicket’s edge.

What happened was too quick for him to comprehend; he had a vision of a
big black horse, mane and tail in the wind, tearing madly, straight at
him–a glimpse of a white face, desperate and set, a flutter of loosened
hair; then a storm of wind and sand roared in his ears; he was hurled,
jerked, and flung forward, dragged, shaken, and left half senseless,
hanging to nose and bit of a horse whose rider was picking herself out of
a bush covered with white flowers.

Half senseless still, he tightened his grip on the bit, released the
grasp on the creature’s nose, and, laying his hand full on the forelock,
brought it down twice and twice across the eyes, talking to the horse in
halting, broken whispers.

When he had the trembling animal under control he looked around; the girl
stood on the grass, dusty, dirty, disheveled, bleeding from a cut on the
cheek bone; the most bewildered and astonished creature he had ever
looked upon.

“It will be all right in a few minutes,” he said, motioning her to the
bench on the asphalt walk. She nodded, turned, picked up his hat, and,
seating herself, began to smooth the furred nap with her sleeve, watching
him intently all the while. That he already had the confidence of a horse
that he had never before seen was perfectly apparent. Little by little
the sweating, quivering limbs were stilled, the tense muscles in the neck
relaxed, the head sank, dusty velvet lips nibbled at his hand, his
shoulder; the heaving, sunken flanks filled and grew quiet.

Bareheaded, his attire in disorder and covered with slaver and sand, the
young man laid the bridle on the horse’s neck, held out his hand, and,
saying “Come,” turned his back and walked down the bridle path. The horse
stretched a sweating neck, sniffed, pricked forward both small ears, and
slowly followed, turning as the man turned, up and down, crowding at heel
like a trained dog, finally stopping on the edge of the walk.

The young man looped the bridle over a low maple limb, and leaving the
horse standing sauntered over to the bench.

“That horse,” he said pleasantly, “is all right now; but the question is,
are you all right?”

She rose, handing him his hat, and began to twist up her bright hair. For
a few moments’ silence they were frankly occupied in restoring order to
raiment, dusting off gravel and examining rents.

“I’m tremendously grateful,” she said abruptly.

“I am, too,” he said in that attractive manner which sets people of
similar caste at ease with one another.

“Thank you; it’s a generous compliment, considering your hat and
clothing.”

He looked up; she stood twisting her hair and doing her best with the few
remaining hair pegs.

“I’m a sight for little fishes,” she said, coloring. “Did that wretched
beast bruise you?”

“Oh, no—-“

“You limped!”

“Did I?” he said vaguely. “How do you feel?”

“There is,” she said, “a curious, breathless flutter all over me; if that
is fright, I suppose I’m frightened, but I don’t mind mounting at once–
if you would put me up—-“

“Better wait a bit,” he said; “it would not do to have that horse feel a
fluttering pulse, telegraphing along the snaffle. Tell me, are you
spurred?”