“I’m going to be rich,” said Jeff steadily.
“‘I’m going to be a horse,’ quoth the little eohippus.” The girl retorted saucily, though secretly alarmed at the import of this examination.
“Ex-actly. So that’s settled. What is your name?”
“Hoffman.”
“Where do you live, Hoffman?”
“Ellinor,” supplemented the girl.
“Ellinor, then. Where do you live, Ellinor?”
“In New York—just now. Not in town. Upstate. On a farm. You see, grandfather’s growing old—and he wanted father to come back.”
“New York’s not far,” said Jeff.
A sudden panic seized the girl. What next? In swift, instinctive self-defense she rose and tripped to the tree where lay her neglected sketch-book, bent over—and started back with a little cry of alarm. With a spring and a rush, Jeff was at her side, caught her up and glared watchfully at bush and shrub and tufted grass.