“David Collins!”
“Well,” he replied, in a half-ashamed tone, “she rides bronchos, doesn’t she? I heard her telling you about being on a broncho that stood right up on his hind feet, and cut up like sixty!”
“Oh, yes, that was a horse she didn’t know about till she got on him! But he couldn’t throw her! She kept her seat! Wasn’t that splendid!”
“Splendid!” he scorned. “It’s just as I said—she’s a—”
“She is not!” Polly burst out indignantly. “It just happened that once. She’s got a lovely little horse that she rides, and he’s as gentle as can be. She isn’t—that! I shouldn’t think you’d say such things about my cousin.” Polly’s voice was tearful.
“I d’n’ know’s cousins are any better ’n other folks,” he growled.
“Oh, David!” she protested. Then her face suddenly lighted. “You’re not afraid I’ll think more of her than I do of you, are you? David, is that it?” as he did not answer. “Why, David Collins,” she went on, the words tumbling out tempestuously, “how foolish you are! I couldn’t! You ought to know! There we were at the hospital together for so long, till it seemed just like one family, and Colonel Gresham your uncle, and all! Why, David, I don’t see what makes you feel so! You never did about Leonora.”
“That’s different,” he mumbled. “You didn’t run off with her, and leave me to tag!”
“Why, I don’t! I want you to come, too! Patricia thinks you’re so nice—she said so.”
“She doesn’t know me.”