“To whom do you refer as my lady love, Miss Finnock?”
“Why, the lady who called you away from me yesterday. Please tell me if you love her. Now, confide in me, won’t you?” and she looked up at me with an affected squint in her broad little eyes.
“I would trust you, Miss Finnock, but there is nothing to confide.”
“Then, of course, there is no love, as that is something of great importance.”
“Do you think so?” I said, vacantly, as we entered the camp ground. We spent half an hour strolling about, and after I had given five dollars for an old bead basket, that was said to have some Indian legend connected with it, and presented it to the little enthusiast, we turned back to our hotel. I was unusually dull, for I felt that it would be inconsistent with previous attentions and her expectations to introduce commonplace topics, and I had determined not even to hint at love. She seemed to notice my reticence, and tried to rally me.
“You do not seem as cheerful as usual, Mr. Smith. Can I have offended you in any way?”
“Thank you, Miss Finnock, for the hint that I am not entertaining,” I said, glad of anything to take up; “let us hasten our steps that you may be the sooner relieved of my presence.”
“Oh, how cruelly you misinterpret my meaning. The pleasure of your company is as great—I mean that——” she feigned confusion, “I like to be with you, but there is such a change in your manner since yesterday.”
“Is there?” I said, mechanically, and thoughtlessly continued: “I was hardly aware of it. I am sure my feelings have not changed.”
“Have they not?” she exclaimed eagerly; “neither have mine.”