"You are the daughter of—"
"Oh, will you stop?"
He paused in his reading and observed her attentively. What he saw appeared to please him. Rosalind was never more charming. She was a goddess, all in white save for the fiery tint in her cheeks and the dangerous glint in her blue eyes.
"Say," he said with sudden interest, "how'd you get up there, anyhow? It's some climb."
"I—I had to climb."
"Meaning he pushed you pretty hard," nodding at the dog.
"Of course!"
"I'd have given a lot to have seen you make it," he mused. "If I call him off will you do it again?"
She flushed hotly and shot him a look of stinging contempt. He never winced.
"You see," he explained, "there's no branch below the one you're sitting on. And that's a good ten feet up. You must have jumped for it and swung yourself up, or else you shinned the tree. In either case it was a stunt that's a credit to you. I'm certainly sorry I missed it—ma'am."