"We've met here before," said David, still smiling.
Katy filled her lungs with air again.
"I was abominable," she confessed, trembling. She began to be a little frightened. Here she had laid hands on David, had taken sides with his enemy, had thrust him violently down upon the ground, had screamed insulting things at him. She had a cold fear that he might be going to punish her for that miserable, compromising episode.
But David's tone was fairly pleasant.
"Yes," he agreed, "you were."
Katy's head bent a little lower. She said to herself that all the education in the world would not remove the hateful stain of her association with poor Alvin. There was nothing she could say, though she had now ample opportunity; all she could do would be to remove herself as soon as possible from close proximity to this tall, gray figure, to the amused smile of these gray eyes. A moth on a pin could flutter no more feebly than Katy fluttered inwardly.
"I wish you would forgive me," said she, by way of preparation for a humble departure.
"But I won't," replied David. "I won't forgive you ever."
Katy's heart beat more and more rapidly. Was he really going to punish her in some strange way? Was he—she glanced rapidly about, then remembered how firmly that hand beside her controlled the great horse. There was no escape unless he let her go.
Then, in spite of herself, Katy looked up, to find David looking down upon her. An incredible notion came into her mind, an astounding premonition of what he meant to say. If she had waited an instant David would have spoken, would have mastered the overwhelming fear that, after all, the hunger of his heart was not to be satisfied. But being still Katy, she could not wait, would not wait, but rushed once more into speech, broken, tearful.