question she had started out to ask, but an answer to it might be very
interesting.

She settled comfortably back upon the boulder she had chosen as a seat,
her hands clasped about one knee, her face turned toward him eagerly,
her eyes sparkling with keen zest.

But he looked at her, appalled. "Why," said he, "why--I don't believe I
can. I know they always seem to be most charming in appearance, but just
how they work the magic _I_ don't know."

"Can't you tell me nothing?" Her voice showed bitter disappointment. She
unclasped the hands about her knee and sat dejected on the boulder. She
gave him not the slightest hint of it, but, suddenly, a plan had come
into her mind.

He looked at her regretfully. "Perhaps you'd better question me," said
he. Maybe I can scare up details if you'll let me know just what you
wish to hear about."

"How are their dresses made?" she asked.

"Oh, skirt, and waist, and so on," he airily replied.

She made a gesture of impatience. "Well, then, how is the skirt made?
Tell me that. Tell me everything that you remember about skirts. Are
they loose as mine, or tighter?" She rose and stood before him, in her
scant drapery of homespun, turning slowly, so that he might see.

It was very clever. Instantly it brought to mind the last girls he had