where the horses' hoofs had beaten a pitted path.

She looked back at him over her shoulder with a sort of malice.

"Is it aiming high?" she said. "Girlie is much more beautiful than
Jim Greely."

"Oh, but he's some looker--Jim."

"Do you think so?" she said indifferently, with a dainty touch of scorn.

Dickie staggered physically from the shock of her speech. She had been
speaking--was it possible?--of Jim Greely....

"I mean Mr. James Greely, the son of the president of the Millings
National Bank," he said painstakingly, and a queer confusion came to him
that the words were his feet and that neither were under his control.
Also, he was not sure that he had said "Natural," or "National."

"I do mean Mr. James Greely," Sheila's clear voice came back to him. "He
is, I should think, a very great hero of yours."

"Yes, ma'am," said Dickie.

Astonished at the abject humility of his tone, Sheila stopped and turned
quite around to look at him. He seemed to be floundering in and out of
invisible holes in the snow. He stepped very high, plunged, put out his
hand, and righted himself by her shoulder. And he stayed there, lurched
against her for a moment. She shook him off and began to run down the
hill. His breath had struck her face. She knew that he was drunk.