“That will hold, I think,” he said gravely; and started toward his horse.
“It wasn’t Tuesday’s fault,” she said eagerly.
Haig paused, on one foot as it were, and looked over his shoulder.
“It was fortunate for you that he’s been well gentled,” he said. “You should look to your cinches rather often when you ride these hills.”
(“You should keep your feet dry, and come in when it rains,” he might as well have said, she thought angrily.)
“Yes, it was careless of me,” she answered, trying to say it brightly, but really wanting to shriek.
“It happens to everybody once in a while,” he said.
On that, he stepped to his pony, put a foot in the stirrup, and one hand on the saddle horn, and paused.
She could easily have flopped down in the road, and wept. Once he had raged at her, once he had thrilled her with a look, and now he was simply dismissing her,––leaving her, as her father would have put it, “to stew in her own juice.” She saw all her elaborate strategy, her long vigil on the hill, her struggle with the saddle, her appealing’ glances––all, all about to go for nothing.