"I'm afraid I'm trespassing," Baird said promptly. "I thought I might come through this way to Westmore, but the gate is locked. I'm sorry I frightened you." He made his apology with the best air possible to him, cap in hand.
Ann quieted the collie, and when she looked at Baird again a smile had dawned in her eyes. "You're a stranger—you couldn't be expected to know about the gate," she said in her soft drawl. "I'll let you through."
"Thank you," Baird said, "but I hate to give you trouble."
Ann said nothing, yet Baird observed that she was not embarrassed. She put down the basket of eggs and led the way, her head carried quite as spiritedly as Judith Westmore bore hers. Not a vestige of the playful child remained; she was collected, polite. And she was lovely. Judith could never have been as pretty—she had never had this girl's ripe lips and warm throat, or her trick of lowered lashes. Baird saw now why her eyes appeared so dark; her lashes were black and the eyelids blue-tinged, giving her eyes both brilliancy and languor. The eyes themselves were a gray-hazel, and, except when surprised or smiling, their expression was wistful, almost melancholy. A facile face, capable of swift changes, and captivating because of it. Baird knew now why he had thought her something more than merely pretty.
He made his observations as he walked on beside her. "It must be a nuisance—having people come through in this way," he remarked, in order to be saying something.
"I don't mind, but grandpa does," Ann answered. "Perhaps when my father comes he will let the gate stay open."
"Your father doesn't live here then?"
"He hasn't been here for a long time—he's coming home to-morrow." There was anticipation in her voice.
"I was thinking this morning that if I owned land about here I'd kick at having my crops ridden over as we were doing."
"It's always been done, you see. Around here the best reason for doin' things is because they've always been done." Her tone was faintly sarcastic; she glanced at him, a swiftly intelligent look.