“You’ll get cold; you’re not strong,” said the girl finally, with the manner of a very old and experienced mother.  She was four years younger than Garrison.  “Put it on; you’re not strong.  That’s right.  Always obey.”

“I am strong,” persisted Garrison, flushing.  He felt very like a schoolboy.

The girl eyed him critically, calmly.

“Oh, but you’re not; not a little bit.  Do you know you’re very—­very—­rickety?  Very rickety, indeed.”

Garrison eyed his flannels in visible perturbation.  They flapped about his thin, wiry shanks most disagreeably.  He was painfully conscious of his elbows, of his thin chest.  Painfully conscious that the girl was physical perfection, he was a parody of manhood.  He looked up, with a smile, and met the girl’s frank eyes.

“I think rickety is just the word,” he agreed, spanning a wrist with a finger and thumb.

“You cannot play tennis, can you?” asked the girl dryly.  “Not a little, tiny bit.”

“No; not a little bit.”

“Golf?” Head on one side.

“Not guilty.”

“Swim?”

“Gloriously.  Like a stone.”

“Run?” Head on the other side.

“If there’s any one after me.”

“Ride?  Every one rides down this-away, you know.”

A sudden vague passion mouthed at Garrison’s heart.  “Ride?” he echoed, eyes far away.  “I—­I think so.”

“Only think so!  Humph!” She swung a restless foot.  “Can’t you do anything?”

“Well,” critically.  “I think I can eat, and sleep——­”

“And talk nonsense.  Let me see your hand.”  She took it imperiously, palm up, in her lap, and examined it critically, as if it were the paw of some animal.  “My! it’s as small as a woman’s!” she exclaimed, in dismay.  “Why, you could wear my glove, I believe.”  There was one part disdain to three parts amusement, ridicule, in her throaty voice.

“It is small,” admitted Garrison, eyeing it ruefully.  “I wish I had thought of asking mother to give me a bigger one.  Is it a crime?”

“No; a calamity.”  Her foot was going restlessly.  “I like your eyes,” she said calmly, at length.

Garrison bowed.  He was feeling decidedly uncomfortable.  He had never met a girl like this.  Nothing seemed sacred to her.  She was as frank as the wind, or sun.

“You know,” she continued, her great eyes half-closed, “I was awfully anxious to see you when I heard you were coming home——­”

“Why?”

She turned and faced him, her grey eyes opened wide.  “Why?  Isn’t one always interested in one’s future husband?”

It was Garrison who was confused.  Something caught at his throat.  He stammered, but words would not come.  He laughed nervously.

“Didn’t you know we were engaged?” asked the girl, with childlike simplicity and astonishment.  “Oh, yes.  How superb!”

“Engaged?  Why—­why——­”

“Of course.  Before we were born.  Your uncle and aunt and my parents had it all framed up.  I thought you knew.  A cut-and-dried affair.  Are you not just wild with delight?”