Are you well?
It is nice to see you." And as he still retained her slim white hand in both of his: "What do you think of my new pony ?" she asked, forcing a smile.

"He's teaching me the real game....

I left the others when Gray came up; Cuyp, Phil Gatewood, and some other men are practising.

You'll play to-morrow, won't you?
It's such a splendid game." She was talking at random, now, as though the sound of her own voice were sustaining her with its nervous informality; and she chattered on in feverish animation, bridging every threatened silence with gay inconsequences.
"You play polo, of course?
Tell me you do." "You know perfectly well I don't--" "But you'll try if I ask you ?" He still held her hand imprisoned--that fragrant, listless little hand, so lifeless, nerveless, unresponsive--as though it were no longer a part of her and she had forgotten it.
"I'll do anything you wish," he said slowly.
"Then _don't_ eat any of these mulberries until you are acclimated.

I'm sorry; they are so delicious.