"Ah, that's the good face I put on."
("Horrid, sneering French ways," she commented to herself, not really thinking so, but feeling it a duty and a kind of instinctive defence to pretend she did. Something rueful in his laugh was not lost upon her.)
"Still, I do appreciate your Indian summer," he added.
"I should think so." She threw back her head and drew in the sweet, sun-laden air. "It's the very best time of all the year." He didn't answer. "Don't you think so?"
"I think it a little melancholy, for all it's so beautiful."
"How curious! It's the time that makes me happiest."
"Is it?"
"Perhaps you prefer spring?" She spoke as one condescending to childishness. "A good many people seem to."
"Yes, all the old, and all—"