“He won’t.”

“Why not?  Any horse might, you know, if he slipped on wet ground or something.”

“He never will with her on his back.  He’s more likely to jump so high he’ll never come down.”

Ruth laughed.  “Look at Colonel rub his nose against her, now he’s had the sandwich.  Don’t you wish you had a picture of them?”

“Indeed I do!” The tone was fervent.  Then a thought struck him and he jumped to his feet.  “By all luck, I believe there’s a little camera in the car.  If there is we’ll have it.”

He ran to the fence, took a flying leap over, and fell to searching.  In a moment he produced something which he waved at Ruth.  She and Ted went to meet him as he returned.  Roberta, busy with the horses, had not seen.

“There are only two exposures left on the film, but they’ll do, if she’ll be good.  Will she mind if I snap her, or must I ask her permission?”

“I think you’d better ask it,” counselled Ruth doubtfully.  “If it were one of us she wouldn’t mind—­”

“I see.”  He set the little instrument with a skilled touch and rapidly, then walked toward Roberta and the horses.  He aimed it with care, then he called:  “You won’t mind if I take a picture of the horses, will you?”

Roberta turned quickly, her hand on Colonel’s snuggling nose.  “Not at all,” she answered, and took a quick step to one side.  But before she had taken it the sharp-eyed little lens of the camera had caught her, her attitude at the instant one of action, the expression of her face that of vivacious response.  She flew out of range and before she could speak the camera clicked again, this time the lens so obviously pointed at the animals, and not at herself, that the intent of the operator could not be called in question.

She looked at him with indignant suspicion, but his glance in return was innocent, though his eyes sparkled.

“They’ll make the prettiest kind of a picture, won’t they?” he observed, sliding the small black box back into its case.  “I wish I had another film; I’d take a lot of pictures about this place.  I mean always to be loaded, but November isn’t usually the time for photographs, and I’d forgotten all about it.”

“If you find you have a picture of me on one of those shots I can trust you not to keep it?”

“I may have caught you on that first shot.  I’ll bring it to you to see.  If your hat is tilted too much or you don’t like your own expression—­”

“I shall not like it, whatever it is.  You stole it.  That wasn’t fair—­and when you had just been treated to sandwiches and ginger ale!”

He looked into her brilliant face and could not tell what he saw there.  He opened the camera box again and took out the instrument.  He removed the roll of films carefully from its position, sealed it, and held it out to her.  His manner was the perfection of courtesy.

“There are other pictures on the roll, I suppose?” she said doubtfully, without accepting it.