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"How old should you imagine me?" he flung the question like a challenge, as if he had divined my thoughts. "Oh, say, thirteen, going on fourteen." "Dear Woman-in-the-Woods, I am thirty-three." "You are older than I thought." "You are younger than you think. And you betray the fact," he smiled. "I have never been very young; probably I shall never be very old."
"Before you go," said Nicholas Jelnik, "I should like to give you a talisman, to turn Miss Smith into Woman-in-the-Woods every now and then." And with his pocket-knife he cut a sharp line down the thin old coin he had tossed, worked at it for a few minutes with a pocket file and a stone, and then with his fingers that looked so slim but were strong as steel nippers. The coin broke in halves.
By the way, that isn't your real name, though. Your name is Woman-in-the-Woods. Mine is " "Fortunatus." He raised his brows. "I was about to say 'Man-who-is-Hungry," he finished, pleasantly. "I once knew an Indian named Tail-feathers-going-over-the-Hill. It taught me the value of being explicit as to one's name. Here, you shall have the cup, and I'll drink out of the bottle.
Some of these fine days, Woman-in-the-Woods, I shall take you on a jaunt with me and Boris." "It sounds promising," I admitted, cautiously. "It is more. You shall learn all the fine points of out-of-door housekeeping. Drink your wine, Woman-in-the-Woods. You were pale, very pale, when I came upon you. I was afraid something had been troubling you." "Something troubles everybody."
"Half for you," said Mr. Jelnik, "and half for me, to commemorate a comradely afternoon, and to mark a decision. We'll consider it a token, a charm, a talisman what you will. And if ever I really and truly need a Woman-in-the-Woods to help me, why, I'll send my half to her; and she'll obey the summons instantly and without question.
"There's no evading the brute. I turn like a weathercock; and there he is, with corrugated brow and slitted eyes, studying me! And the baleful eye of The Author also pursues me. Between them, I feel skinned." "Mr. Morenas says you are a rare but quite perfect type," I told him, mischievously. The young man shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. "Am I a type, Woman-in-the-Woods?" he asked.
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