He made the suggestion purposely, but it was wholly ignored, and there was no guile in the slate-gray eyes.
"You mean that you didn't want to come?"
"No; not that. I have wanted to come every time your father has asked me. But there are reasons—good reasons—why I shouldn't be here."
If she knew any of the reasons she made no sign. She was sitting in the hammock and touching one slippered toe to the flagstones for the swinging push. From Smith's point of view she had for a background the gorgeous sunset, but he could not see the more distant glories.
"We owe you much, and we are going to owe you more," she said. "You mustn't think that we don't appreciate you at your full value. Colonel-daddy thinks you are the most wonderful somebody that ever lived, and so do a lot of the others."
"And you?" he couldn't resist saying.
"I'm just plain ashamed—for the way I treated you when you were here before. I've been eating humble-pie ever since."
Smith breathed freer. Nobody but a most consummate actress could have simulated her frank sincerity. He had jumped too quickly to the small sum-in-addition conclusion. She did not know the story of the absconding bank cashier.
"I don't know why you should feel that way," he said, eager, now, to run where he had before been afraid to walk.
"I do. And I believe you wanted to shame me. I believe you gave up your place at the dam and took hold with daddy more to show me what an inconsequent little idiot I was than for any other reason. Didn't you, really?"