Crimson Mountain (Musaicum Romance Classics). Grace Livingston Hill

came out of the little glass room with a smile. She wasn’t feeling badly at missing her date! Or was she? Maybe she was smiling at hearing a beloved voice. How could he tell? Pilgrim wished he hadn’t overheard the conversation. He wished this hadn’t happened just now. Somehow it dimmed the pleasure that he had been anticipating in the small expedition on which they were about to embark. Of course she would have men friends. She had been going somewhere with one of them to-night.

      But Laurel got into the Pilgrim car quite happily. Her friend Adrian had evidently not been happy over the canceling of their engagement and had been quite insistent that he would come after her, but she reflected contentedly that she had got away with the interview without telling him just where she was or giving him any clue to find her. And now he couldn’t possibly trace her and come after her even if he tried.

      And he probably would try. Adrian Faber was that way. He always tried everything there was to try to carry out his point.

      To tell the truth, she had come away from the city in haste and without leaving details of her whereabouts partly because she had felt it was essential that she should be by herself and think a few things through to their finish without the influence of any of her friends to distract her attention, especially the insistent friends who would go to the length of trying to make her marry them to prevent her going away. And she was not at all sure that she wanted to marry anyone. At least not now.

      Also the events of the afternoon had put a new phase on life and made her feel that there was much to be understood and settled before she was ready to consider marriage with anybody.

      So Laurel came back to the examination of her car with a lighter heart, having rid herself of an obligation that had troubled her more or less all day, because she had literally dreaded this evening’s engagement and had had only half an intention of returning in time to keep it, anyway.

      "Well, it all depends on whether the new part comes down on the five ten train or not," said Pilgrim as she came toward him smiling.

      "Yes?" Laurel. "And—if the part doesn’t come, then what?"

      "Well, we’ll wait till the train comes in, and if it isn’t on the train, somebody is driving after it. Don’t worry. I think we’ll manage it somehow."

      "Oh, but you mustn’t!" said Laurel with instant trouble in her eyes. "You’ve done so much already. You can’t drive sixty-five miles after a part for my car! I’ve practically used up half a day of your precious leave, and I simply won’t accept any more services. There must be someone I could pay to go after it. Or, wait! I could go back to the city on the train myself. There is an evening train. I looked up trains before I ventured over here, because I didn’t want to put myself permanently where there wouldn’t be good train service anytime I needed it. Then I could leave my car here till it was finished and return on the train or the early morning bus. Now please don’t worry anymore."

      "Oh no. I won’t worry. I’m only a stranger you picked up, and I don’t have to do a thing more for you of course. So now, lady, how about our running around to look over that tearoom, just in case? I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry as the dickens, and I don’t see that eating a little snack together would injure the reputation of a schoolteacher in Carrollton, even if we are ‘practically strangers.’ What do you say? We’ve got time enough before that train gets in. But of course, if you’re not hungry, you could sit in my car while I go in and eat. I picked up a magazine and an evening paper when I was at the drugstore. I wouldn’t mind if you read them, just in case you aren’t hungry."

      There was a kind of a hurt grin on his pleasant mouth, and she gave him an understanding smile.

      "But I am hungry," she said eagerly. "I’m simply starving! Let’s go!" She climbed into his car again, and they drove away together.

      "Now, look here," said Pilgrim as they swung around the first corner, "there’s just one condition I’d like to make. Please don’t let’s have any more plaudits for that little act of picking you up and swinging you over my head——!"

      "Little act!" sniffed Laurel. "Over the heads of those angry frightened cattle, you mean," said the girl. "I don’t think I can ever thank you enough—"

      "But listen! I’m fed up on that I don’t want to hear any more about it. Any decent man would have done the same thing and not expect to be made a hero forever after, so please don’t! If you honestly want to thank me, just be a little kind and friendly to a poor soldier home on leave for a few hours with no one to go and see. Let’s eat dinner together as if we always had been friends and were just having a nice time together. Could you do that? I won’t ever take advantage of it. Honest I won’t!"

      She turned and looked squarely at him. "Of course you won’t," she said. "Don’t you know I trust you? And yes, of course, I’ll be delighted to have dinner with you. Then we can really get acquainted. It will be much less awkward that way. ‘Old-school-friends’ stuff, you know." She gave him a dazzling smile and settled back comfortably in the rattly old jalopy.

      He looked at her wistfully. How game she was! How great if she really were his friend, not just pretending for the time being. But he had better make the most of it. He wouldn’t have so very many pleasant times to remember when he was on his way to war.

      "Thanks a lot," he said with a deep undertone of feeling. "That’s swell of you! Well, here’s the tearoom. Neat little place, isn’t it?"

      "Why, yes, it’s very attractive. I think we’re going to have a nice time, don’t you? It’s going to be fun, soldier boy!"

      He looked down admiringly at her. She seemed almost like a little girl, out on a real picnic, and something in his warm gaze stirred her heart deeply and brought a rich color into her cheeks. It made him think of the dash of crimson on the mountain.

      He helped her out of the car, and together they walked up to the door.

      "It’s all like a picture here," she said with a graceful caressing motion of her arm toward the flower borders of the walk, brilliant scarlet and golden autumn flowers, dashing flames of salvia, coordinated sharply, backed by gorgeous marigolds of all shades, deep maroon velvet dahlias, and tawny groups of chrysanthemums merging into pools of creamy white ones. "Isn’t it lovely?"

      They lingered together looking at them, like any other young man and maiden on their way to take dinner, and for the moment both forgot that they were strangers but a brief space before.

      Inside, the tables were inviting, with a few autumn roses on each, bright pretty china, and spotless linen. Phil Pilgrim seated her as courteously as any of her other young men friends would have done. It seemed all most amazing when she thought of it, only Laurel was enjoying herself too much to think of it. She had a sense of well-being, and she didn’t want to spoil it by any questions of formality. There certainly was nothing wrong in what she was doing. She did know who he was; she had seen him as a child. That he had been working hard then in common denim overalls troubled her not at all. she had plenty of friends whose brothers were taking any positions, or "jobs," as they preferred to call them, that they could get and were glad enough to get them. Why should she distinguish between them because this young man’s relatives had been poor and he had had to work hard from early childhood? Certainly he was to be honored that he had come so far with so little help.

      A waitress was by their side at once, naming a long list of interesting appetizers.

      "Oyster soup, oh, that sounds good!" said Laurel. "Yes, I’ll take oyster soup!"

      And when it came, there was no oyster in sight, but a smooth broth of rich, warm, tempting smell and taste, with crisp crackers of odd shapes.

      An attractive tray of exotic salads of quaint fashioning and colors.

      Raspberry aspic jelly on a pale lettuce leaf with a dab of whipped cream; orange fritters, crisp brown with delicious orange sauce.

      "But you know this is quite an extraordinary menu for a little country town," said Laurel suddenly with an amazed glance toward her companion. "Is this on the regular highway? Does it attract tourists?"

      "It