The response was more prompt than she could have anticipated. Before she could carry out her evident purpose of forcing her uneasy horse to the very dashboard, Fessenden slipped from the landau, ducked under the mare’s head, and, seizing the sorrel by the bit, forced him back.
“What’s up, Miss Yarnell?” he said, with stern jocularity. “You mustn’t ride into people’s laps, you know.”
“Oh, I don’t want you,” she said. “I want her.” Again the silver-mounted whip was brandished toward the calash-top.
Betty’s piquant face emerged from its depths. “Are you looking for me?” she asked very sweetly.
Miss Yarnell’s arm fell. She stared at the childish face—at the wide-opened blue eyes and slender figure.
“O-oh!” Her voice was tremulous, all hint of violence gone from it. “You! I thought it was—I thought it was some one else.”
“At any rate, it isn’t proper to threaten one with a whip,” said Betty gravely.
“I—I know it. There!” Her arm swung up, and the whip spun a flashing arc through the air before falling into a field of ripening wheat. “The hateful thing!” She faced the girl again. “I’m sorry. I’ve been acting like a fool. I beg your pardon—and yours too, Mr. Fessenden.”
She checked the horse she had already started to wheel, and appealed to Betty. “I must ask you. I came after you because I thought you were—were some one else. I thought so because of that envelope Thursday.”
“A Baltimore friend of mine happens to have lent me a box of her notepaper.” There was impatience in Betty’s explanation.