But the coquettish glance that answered him was not entirely reassuring.
"Anyway," Peter pleaded on, "tell me you like me better than Kit or Gilbert. Tell me that if I'm a prey to green-eyed jealousy up there in the camp, at least, I needn't envy either of those chaps."
"Of course not!"
"Oh, you torment! Your words are all right,—but your emphasis is a little too strong. Carly, look me straight in the eyes and tell me you don't care for either of them!"
"Either of your eyes?"
"Silly! Well, yes, then, tell me that!"
The chicory flower eyes looked into the great, dark ones, and for a moment there was silence. The blue eyes were sweet and true, and they burned with a strong, deep lovelight. The eyes that gazed into them fell a little and seemed unable to meet them squarely.
"What is it, Carly? What is it, dear?" he begged.
"Nothing," she said, lightly. "I do l-like you, Peter,—better than any man I know——"
"Better than Kit Shelby?"