“You didn’t see me for almost ten weeks, but I didn’t notice you grieving much!” argued the young man, gloomily.
“But you’re not a horse—or rather, my horse!” she retorted.
John knew by the sparkle of her eyes that she was teasing him, that there was no use to expect her to give up her ride. Instead, he begged her to take a walk with him after supper.
“I can’t do that either,” she replied. “I have to write home.”
“But that won’t take all evening!”
“No, but I have other letters to write besides. And what about you—don’t you have to write to your mother, and to your friends in Cape May?”
John smiled at the insinuation. How he wished Marjorie would give him an opportunity to tell Dorothy’s story. But she seemed determined to avoid seeing him alone.
“No, I expect to write to mother this afternoon while you are out riding, and I have no other letters that need answering.”
“Then why don’t you join our party?” inquired Marjorie.
“You know why!” he replied, as if he were rather ashamed of his reason. “Because I can’t ride well enough!”