Ruth tried to contradict his blushing face with a laugh of worldly indifference.
“She came up yer on a sort of pasear.”
“Oh, yes!—a short cut to the creek,” interpolated Rand satirically.
“Last Tuesday or Wednesday,” continued Ruth, with affected forgetfulness.
“Oh, in course, Tuesday, or Wednesday, or Thursday! You've so many folks climbing up this yer mountain to call on ye,” continued the ironical Rand, “that you disremember; only you remembered enough not to tell me. SHE did. She took me for you, or pretended to.”
The color dropped from Ruth's cheek.
“Took you for me?” he asked, with an awkward laugh.
“Yes,” sneered Rand; “chirped and chattered away about OUR picnic, OUR nose-gays, and lord knows what! Said she'd keep them blue-jay's wings, and wear 'em in her hat. Spouted poetry, too,—the same sort o' rot you get off now and then.”
Ruth laughed again, but rather ostentatiously and nervously.
“Ruth, look yer!”