He joined in her amusement. "I know," he said, "I'm an awful ass. I've tried to change—really, I have—but I can't do it. I wake up next morning and find myself back where I began. Your sister—my father—Bert Pittsey—everyone has tried to help me, but they can't. I'll get into trouble, some day, I know."
"We all do that."
"Yes, but you try to avoid it. I seem to walk right into it with my eyes shut."
"Never mind. Don't let us worry about it."
"I don't!" he said. "That's the trouble!"
"Well," she sighed, "some days I think you're right. You are on a morning like this, anyway!"
She even accepted his invitation to have luncheon at the "Terrace," and protected him from extravagance by giving a ridiculous order of oysters and ice-cream—making a joke of it, enjoying with him the amazement of the waiter, ignoring the curiosity of the people about her and devoting her eyes to Don as if they two were alone in a solitary holiday of sunshine and autumn trees.
"Now what shall we do?" he asked, while the waiter was gone for his change.
"Get a package of cigarettes," she whispered, as if proposing a forbidden wickedness, "and we'll go where you can have a quiet smoke."
He laughed. "I know the very place!—as good as a hay-loft!"
It was around an arm of the lake, at the foot of an unfrequented path that led to the water's edge and
