From the Car Behind. Eleanor M. Ingram

the flattery of being sought. "But how did Prince Corrie offend his sovereign lady?"

      "Oh, that would be telling! You know, we are not engaged."

      "Not yet?"

      "Not at all. And the last time we were out alone together, he—he asked me to see if the oil was running through that little cup on the dash."

      "And then?"

      They were in the car now, Gerard behind the steering-wheel. Isabel leaned down to touch her fingers to the dash, turning her vivid-hued, consciously alluring face across her shoulder to the companion so close beside her, the auburn curls tumbled about her forehead and her mouth tempting as a small scarlet fruit.

      "And then, we were like this when—guess what Corrie did?"

      It was not in the least difficult to guess what the enamoured Corrie had done. But Gerard shook his head, schooling his mirthful eyes.

      "I could not, possibly, Miss Rose. I am very dull."

      "Well, what would you have done?"

      "I? I should have shut both eyes and recalled St. Francis' rules of deportment."

      Isabel straightened herself, leaning back and folding her hands in her lap.

      "That's what Corrie did not do," she stated. "So I will not ride with him. It was bad taste."

      "I imagine Corrie found the taste most pleasant."

      "Oh!"

      "Have I guessed wrong?"

      "You said that you were dull, Mr. Gerard."

      "Then the guess is wrong. Poor Corrie!"

      She shrugged her shoulders impatiently.

      "You think a great deal about Corrie."

      "Yes. We are friends," Gerard quietly answered.

      She was clever enough to recognize the bar he set to flirtation with the woman loved by the man he gave that name, and she regarded the obstacle as a challenge. She was not sufficiently old or fine to realize that such bars are not crossed by such men. If Gerard had loved her or believed she might love him, he must have left his friend's house; as Corrie would have left Gerard's in like case. As a matter of fact, Gerard was perfectly aware of the immunity of both parties and that Isabel was merely seeking temporary diversion—experimenting with the possibilities of her own heady youth.

      A forking of the road supplied a new subject for discussion.

      "Turn to the left," Isabel directed, sitting erect.

      Surprised, Gerard checked the machine.

      "We did not come that way, Miss Rose."

      "Of course not; you came by the long route, past the Goodwin farm. This is a better road."

      "Better?"

      She followed his gaze down the vista of slippery, rut-grooved mud, and colored.

      "A shorter road, then," she amended petulantly. "I am sure I don't care—go the long way if you wish. The storm is blowing back again, but I can stand the rain."

      Gerard hastily turned into the wretched travesty of a road.

      "I beg your pardon; I only wondered if you were quite certain of the route," he apologized.

      There ensued a period of silence. The little car slipped and wallowed through sliding mud and yellow puddles.

      "I hope you do not drive here, yourself," Gerard observed.

      "Do you think I should be afraid?"

      "I think you might have serious trouble. There is a deep ditch on either side, while the road is both narrow and slippery."

      "I can drive anywhere. Ask Corrie."

      "I suspect he is a biassed judge. But I should not have believed he would let you drive here."

      "He——I never did except in dry weather. I knew you would not mind any road and could drive in anything, so it did not matter."

      "Please consider the compliment more than appreciated, mademoiselle," Gerard smiled. "There is going to be a splash when we strike that puddle ahead; had you not better draw in your frock?"

      She caught her white serge skirts around her and shrank nearer to her companion with a gurgle of dismayed laughter.

      "Let me get in the middle. Uh, what a muddy swamp! Oh—my face!"

      In fact, the water had splashed as the car struck the pool where a rain-swollen brook had overflowed the road. As Gerard turned to the girl, she lifted a face sprinkled with drops which she strove to remove with her handkerchief.

      "Is it off?" she questioned. "Please look carefully. All off?"

      He was obliged to scrutinize the handsome countenance offered for inspection at close range.

      "A trifle of mud, still," he admitted.

      "Where? Here?"

      "No—more to the left. Beneath the eye—the other eye."

      "This place?"

      "Not quite."

      It was incredible, the length of time that small spot evaded Isabel's questing handkerchief, and the futility of Gerard's directions. He was obliged to halt the car, at last.

      "A little higher—not so much. There! No, not so low."

      With a gesture of mock despair, she gave him the fragrant square of linen.

      "Wipe it off," she requested resignedly. "I can't motor all over Long Island with a dirty face. There is no one in sight for miles; wipe it off and never tell."

      "I am very clumsy," he demurred.

      "Well, it can't be helped."

      Gerard might have echoed the exclamation. But he accepted the handkerchief and deftly, if with inward embarrassment, removed the stain from the ruddy cheek presented.

      "It can't be off, Mr. Gerard?"

      "Pardon, it is gone."

      "You hardly touched it," doubtingly.

      "If you could see——" he began in defense of his work.

      "Look once more."

      He obeyed, impersonally and coolly.

      "Nothing, indeed," he asserted.

      She glanced up at him through her long lashes, and flung herself back in her seat.

      "Thank you. Shall we go on?"