“Something worse?”
“Is there anything worse than stealing?” she asked artlessly. “His acquaintance with me is not exactly of a personal nature. He admits but one of my shortcomings—that he never knows where to find me—literally. He’d think so more than ever if he could see me now.”
“Does he love you?”
She stopped playing, rose from the piano bench and with an odd little laugh, crossed the room to the window seat. He followed.
“Hebby love me? Well, no! There have been times when I think he positively hated me. But I wish he hadn’t come. He brings up—unpleasant memories.”
“Then let’s talk of something pleasant—very pleasant. About Marta, Jo’s Marta. I met them together yesterday. I had my answer to the question I asked you.”
“They are very happy,” she said wistfully. “I am so glad.”
“Pen, why did you make me think, that first day I met you, that it was you Jo met and loved in Chicago?”
“Did I make you think so? You assumed I was the one and I—well, I wouldn’t have presumed to dispute the assertion of anyone in a sheriff line. It’s safer not.”
“You asked me not to be hard on little Marta. Who could be? Not even the man you seem to think me to be. I’ll do all in my power to help them to build a little home in the hills. And she does love him.”