“You funny man!” she said. “If I weren’t—a farmer’s girl, I should think you were flirting.”
He was unable to muster an instant reply. A shade, snapped sharply down, cut the fair hair and laughing face from his view.
There was nothing left for him to do but to make his way back to Sandywood, which he did very thoughtfully.
After dinner the men grouped themselves in easy chairs at a corner of the porch, to enjoy their cigarettes. Harry Cleborne drew his chair to Fessenden’s.
“Will you try one of my home-growns, Mr. Fessenden?” he proffered. “That tobacco was raised on my own plantation.”
Fessenden accepted a cigar, suddenly conscious that Cleborne’s unwonted attentions must have an ulterior motive.
“Thank you. You’re a Marylander, then?”
“Virginian,” returned the other. “My home’s in old Albemarle. I’ve seen a good deal of Maryland the last year or two, though.” His eyes strayed toward the white gowns of the women.
“Maryland has its attractions,” said Fessenden.
“Yes, that’s so—even for you?”