Then and there, a day was set for the first lesson in horsemanship.
"Sit down, please," said Kenneth. "I want you to enlighten me. I am painfully dense."
She seated herself on the tree trunk again, saying as she did so:
"I had not observed any conspicuous signs of density on your part, Mr. Hastings, save that you think I could be metamorphosed into a horsewoman. Some women are born to the saddle. I was not. I am not an Englishwoman, you see."
"But decidedly English," he retorted. "I wish you would tell me your story."
Her face flushed.
"I beg your pardon," he hastened to say. "I did not mean to be rude. You interest me deeply. Anything you think or do, anything that has made you what you are, is of deep interest to me."
"There is nothing to tell," she said simply. "Just a few pages, with here and there an entry; a few birthdays; graduation from college; foreign travel; work in Gila; a life spent in companionship with a wonderfully lovely and lovable grandfather; work at his side, and life's history in the making. That is all."
"All?" he repeated. "But that is rich in suggestion. I have studied you almost exclusively for three weeks, and I know you."
She looked up. The expression in his eyes nettled her. Her spinal column stiffened.