His temperament responded promptly to the appeal of her beauty, and his blood quickened as it did when women moved him. There was about him, withal, a fantastic chivalry which succumbed to the glitter of false sentiment. He would have made the remark had Eugenia been plain—but he would not have come to Kingsborough.
"It would please your mother," returned the girl quietly. She had the sexual self-poise of the Virginia woman, and she weighed the implied compliment at its due value. Had he declared he would die for her once a week, she would have received the assurance with much the same smiling indifference.
"I'll run down, I think, pretty often this winter," he went on easily. "It's a nice old town, after all—isn't it?"
"It's the dearest old town in the world," said Eugenia.
"Well, I believe it is—strange, I used to find it dull, don't you think? By the way, will you let me ride with you sometimes? I hear you are as great a horsewoman as ever."
Eugenia looked up calmly.
"I go very early," she answered. "Can you get up at daybreak?"
He laughed his pleasant laugh.
"Oh, I might manage it," he rejoined. "I'm not much of an early riser, I never knew before what charms the sunrise held."
But Eugenia went on potting plants.