“Mr. Bransford! Put me down!”
“What was it? A rattlesnake?”
“A snake? What an idea! I just noticed how late it was. I must go.”
Crestfallen, sheepishly, Mr. Bransford put her down, thrust his hands into his pockets, tilted his chin and whistled an aggravating little trill from the Rye twostep.
“Mr. Bransford!” said Ellinor haughtily.
Mr. Bransford’s face expressed patient attention.
“Are you lame?”
Mr. Bransford’s eye estimated the distance covered during the recent snake episode, and then gave to Miss Hoffman a look of profound respect. His shoulders humped up slightly; his head bowed to the stroke: he stood upon one foot and traced the Rainbow brand in the dust with the other.
“I told you all along I wasn’t hurt,” he said aggrieved. “Didn’t I, now?”