The girl wheeled and shot a swift, startled glance at the little eohippus on the hillside, who had long since given over his futile struggles and was now nibbling grass with becoming resignation. She turned back to Bransford. Slowly, scathingly, she looked him over from head to foot and slowly back again. Her expression ran the gamut—wonder, anger, scorn, withering contempt.
“I think I hate you!” she flamed at him.
Amazement triumphed over the other emotions then—a real amazement: the detected impostor had resumed his former debonair bearing and met her scornful eye with a slow and provoking smile.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” he said reassuringly. “On the contrary, you don’t hate me at all!”
“I’m going home, anyhow,” she retorted bitterly. “You may draw your own conclusions.”
Still, she did not go, which possibly had a confusing effect upon his inferences.
“Just one minute, ma’am, if you please. How did you know so pat where the little black horse was? I didn’t tell you.”
Little waves of scarlet followed each other to her burning face.
“I’m not going to stay another moment. You’re detestable! And it’s nearly sundown.”
“Oh, you needn’t hurry. It’s not far.”