I'm a wreck." "Where have you been all day ?" "Haying!" said Philip promptly.
"Sleeping!" corrected Diane with a critical sniff.
Mr.Poynter fancied they were synonyms.
"Do you know," he added pointedly, "I imagine I'd find ever so much more romance and adventure about it if I only had some interesting ailment and a music-mill.

I did think I had a bully cough, but it was only a wisp of hay in my throat." Philip's powers of intuition were most fearful.

Diane colored.
"Just what do you mean ?" she inquired cautiously.
"Nothing at all," replied Philip with a charming smile.

"I never do.
Why mean anything when words come so easy without?
It has occurred to me," he added innocently, "that it takes an uncommonly thick-skinned and unromantic dub to tour about covered with hay.

Fancy sleeping through this wild and beautiful country when I might be grinding up lost chords to annoy the populace." Diane had heard something of this sort before from quite another source.