"H'm!" said Kitty Wade. "Yes, I think she is. Dresses nicely and simply. No imitation fine things. Shows the correct instinct. You and she might have been having a plain-clothes competition."
Clyde did not respond. Kitty Wade resumed, after a brief pause: "I'll tell you one thing, Clyde; this man Farwell is in love with her."
"I could see that, Kitty."
"And she doesn't care for him."
"I thought that, too."
"I wonder," Kitty Wade went on, "if there is anything between her and Mr. Dunne? Do you suppose he and Mr. Farwell are jealous of each other? They were like two dogs with one bone."
Clyde yawned. "Oh, mercy, Kitty," she said wearily, "ask me something easier. I wouldn't blame either of them. She seems to be a thoroughly nice girl."
Kitty Wade on her way to her room nodded wisely. "You don't fool me a little bit, Clyde," she said to herself. "This Sheila McCrae is probably just as nice as you are, and you own up to it like a little lady. But all the same you hate each other; and, what's more, you both know it."
CHAPTER XVIII
Clyde lay stretched at length in sweet, odorous hay. There was no reason why she should not have taken the hammock in the shade of the veranda that morning, save that she wanted to be alone. Therefore she had taken a book and wandered forth. Behind the corrals she had come upon a haystack, cut halfway down and halfway across, and on impulse she had climbed up a short ladder and lain down. Her hands clasped behind her head, her book forgotten, she stared up into the blue sky, and dreamed daydreams. And then she went to sleep.