Gordon cut her short. "I beg off," he cried; "a joke's a joke, but you're rather rubbing it in. I tried to be funny with the wrong person; I'll admit it. Speaking of Rose, though; that reminds me again—I'm going to see if I can't persuade her to come out here soon; it's taking so much longer to get things in shape than I thought it would, and I was wondering—do you suppose you'd mind asking her to stay with you? The hotel, to be frank, is pretty near the limit, and then there'd be a chaperon, too, while if you invited her—"
The girl nodded. "Sure," she said; "glad to. I'd really like to see—"
She stopped abruptly. A pair of black ducks swung swiftly across the decoys, and like a flash the gun leaped to her cheek. The two quick reports sounded almost as one, and the two ducks struck the water, dead. The girl rose.
"Come on," she cried, "that makes our dozen. We've got to be getting back home."
By the time Gordon had launched the little skiff and brought the ducks ashore, she had deftly harnessed the horse to the old buggy, and stood waiting for him. Tossing the ducks under the seat, he stood back for her to get in, and then, with a sudden impulse, stepped forward again, blocking her path. Very dainty, very charming, she stood there with a little smile of understanding on her lips.
"Ethel," he whispered.
She made no answer. A sudden gust of passion shook him. He took one quick step forward, and clasped her in his arms. "Ethel," he whispered hoarsely, "suppose there wasn't any other girl."
With a glance enticing beyond words, she raised her eyes to his. "Oh, but there is," she answered, and yet she made no move to free herself, and in another moment their lips met.