“Oh.”
They rode on a little distance in silence, and then she remembered that she was still curious about him. His frankness had affected her; she did not think it impertinent to betray curiosity.
“How long have you lived out here?” she asked.
“About ten years.”
“You weren’t born here, of course—you have admitted that. Then where did you come from?”
“This is a large country,” he returned, unsmilingly.
It was a reproof, certainly—Rosalind could go no farther in that direction. But her words had brought a mystery into existence, thus sharpening her interest in him. She was conscious, though, of a slight pique—what possible reason could he have for evasion? He had not the appearance of a fugitive from justice.
“So you’re going to live out here?” he said, after an interval. “Where?”
“I heard father speak of buying Blakeley’s place. Do you know where it is?”
“It adjoins mine.” There was a leaping note in his voice, which she did not fail to catch. “Do you see that dark line over there?” He pointed eastward—a mile perhaps. “That’s a gully; it divides my land from Blakeley’s. Blakeley told me a month ago that he was dickering with an eastern man. If you are thinking of looking the place over, and want a trustworthy escort I should be pleased to recommend—myself.” And he grinned widely at her.