Nights their camps lay side by side.
Keela, with shy and delightful gravity, slipped wide-eyed into the
niceties of civilization, coiled her heavy hair in the fashion of Diane
and copied her dress naively. Diane felt a thrill of satisfaction at
this singular finding of a friend whose veins knew the restless stir of
nomadic blood, a friend who was fleeter of foot, keener of vision and
hearing and better versed in the ways of the woodland than Diane
herself. And Diane had known no peer in the world of white men.
There were gray dawns when a pair of silent riders went galloping
through the stillness upon the Westfall horses, riding easily without
saddles; there were twilights when they swam in sheltered pools like
wild brown nymphs; there were quiet hours by the camp fire when the
inborn reticence of the Indian girl vanished in the frank sincerity of
Diane's friendship. Of Mr. Poynter and the hay-camp there was no sign.
"Doubtless," considered Diane disdainfully, "he has come at last to his
senses. And I'm very glad he has, very glad indeed. It's time he did.
I think I made my displeasure sufficiently clear at the exceedingly
tricky way he and the Baron conducted themselves at Palm Beach. And
the Baron was no better than Philip.
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