"Why, no, Mr. Bowles," soothed Dixie, laying her hand on his arm. "Not a word—I don't know anything about you—I was only making it up."
"Oh!" said Bowles, and drew his arm away. He looked out at the horses for a moment, poured the water out of his hat, and turned back, his old smiling self.
"How is your knee now?" he inquired kindly. "Do you think you can ride? I suppose we ought to be going pretty soon."
Dixie glanced over at him and her heart sank—she had observed these sudden changes in Bowles before, and even his boyish smile could not lighten the veiled rebuke. When Bowles had thoughts that were anti-social he was always unusually kind, and his way of expressing disapproval was to tactfully change the subject. And now he was talking of going! Dixie scowled and felt of her knee, and rose stiffly to her feet.
"Well, if you're in such a hurry," she sulked; but Bowles was at her side in an instant.
"Oh, my dear Miss Lee!" he cried, catching her as she poised for a limp. "Please don't do that! Let me carry you, when the time comes, but we will rest as long as you please."
He passed a compelling arm about her and lowered her gently to her place; then he sat down beside her, and breathed hard as he set her free.
"Really," he murmured, "we don't seem to understand each other very well, Miss Lee!"
"That's because neither one of us is telling the truth!" observed Dixie with a certain bitterness.
They sat for a moment in silence, and then she turned about and looked him squarely in the eye.