Susan hesitated, went to the shadow of a little tree not far from him. He was fanning his flushed face with his hat. The collar of his shirt was open; below, where the tan ended abruptly, his skin was beautifully white. Now that she had been discovered, it was as well to be pleasant, she reasoned. "It's a fine day," she observed with a grown-up gravity that much amused him.
"Not for fishing," said he. "I caught nothing. You are a stranger in these parts?"
Susan colored and a look of terror flitted into her eyes. "Yes," she admitted. "I'm—I'm passing through."
The young man had all he could do to conceal his amusement. Susan flushed deeply again, not because she saw his expression, for she was not looking at him, but because her remark seemed to her absurd and likely to rouse suspicion.
"I suppose you came up here to see the view," said the man. He glanced round. "It is pretty good. You're not visiting down Brooksburg way, by any chance?"
"No," replied Susan, rather composedly and determined to change the subject. "What was that song I heard you singing?"
"Oh—you heard, did you?" laughed he. "It's the Duke's song from
'Rigoletto.'"
"That's an opera, isn't it—like 'Trovatore'?"
"Yes—an Italian opera. Same author."
"It's a beautiful song." It was evident that she longed to ask him to sing it. She felt at ease with him; he was so unaffected and simple, was one of those people who seem to be at home wherever they are.