"Do you sing?" he inquired.
"Not really," replied she.
"Neither do I. So if you'll sing to me, I'll sing to you."
Susan looked round in alarm. "Oh, dear, no—please don't," she cried.
"Why not?" he asked curiously. "There isn't a soul about."
"I know—but—really, you mustn't."
"Very well," said he, seeing that her nervousness was not at all from being asked to sing. They sat quietly, she gazing off at the horizon, he fanning himself and studying her lovely young face. He was somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty-five and a close observer would have suspected him of an unusual amount of experience, even for a good-looking, expansive youth of that age.
He broke the long silence. "I'm a newspaper man from Cincinnati. I'm on the Commercial there. My name's Roderick Spenser. My father's Clayton Spenser, down at Brooksburg"—he pointed to the southeast—"beyond that hill there, on the river. I'm here on my vacation." And he halted, looking at her expectantly.
It seemed to her that there was in courtesy no escape without a return biographical sketch. She hung her head, twisted her tapering fingers in her lap, and looked childishly embarrassed and unhappy. Another long silence; again he broke it. "You'll pardon my saying so, but—you're very young, aren't you?"
"Not so—so terribly young. I'm almost seventeen," replied she, glancing this way and that, as if thinking of flight.