She looked up into his face and smiled a bit, making no attempt to reply.
“I saw you from across the room,” he went on eagerly. “I couldn’t believe my eyes. Why, when I think of the little girl I saw last—”
He broke off and Hilda laughed at the recollection of her stained, torn, cotton riding dress on that occasion, her sunburned face, streaked with dust and perspiration, the soaked hair sticking to it.
“I must have looked a fright that day,” she half whispered.
“No—of course you didn’t!” Then he added, “But—but such a child, Hilda! And now, all in a moment—”
“Oh, it’s been a good many moments.” She did try to make her tone a bit sarcastic, though her voice was tremulous. “And maybe you only thought I looked such a baby. I’m nearly seventeen. You”—she tried to laugh—“you offered me the kids at the ranches to play with.”
“I was just a plain fool,” said Pearse. “I’d got used to thinking of you as a child—and I—but you’ll forgive me, Hilda, and,” eagerly, “give me the next dance and let’s sit it out. I’ve got so many things to say to you.”
In their absorption, they did not notice that harp and violin were stilled. Now Fayte’s voice broke in upon them.
“Mightn’t you folks just as well quit when the music does?”
They looked about them. The other couples were seeking seats.