"You see what you missed in the past," she observed in a tone slightly mocking.
"You were not here to suggest it," he returned quietly, with gaze only for blue eyes.
She suffered them to linger. "I suppose I should feel nattered that a suggestion from little me--"
"A suggestion from little you would, I fancy, go a long ways with many people." A spark shone now in the man's steady look; the girl seemed not afraid of it.
"I am fortunate," she laughed. "A compliment from Mr. John Steele!"
"Why not say--the truth?" he observed.
She stroked her horse's glossy neck and smiled furtively at the soft, velvet surface. "The truth?" she replied. "What is it? Where shall we find it? Isn't it something the old philosophers were always searching for? Plato, and--some of the others we were taught of in school."
He started as if to speak, but his answer remained unuttered; the man's lips closed tighter; a moment he watched the small gloved hand, then his gaze turned to the gray sky.
"So you see, I call compliments, compliments," she ended lightly.
He offered no comment; the horses moved on; suddenly she looked at him. One of those odd changes she had once or twice noticed before had come over John Steele; his face appeared too grave, too reserved; she might almost fancy a stormy play of emotion behind that mask of immobility. The girl's long lashes lowered; a slightly puzzled expression shone from her eyes. It may be she had but the natural curiosity of her sex, that her interest was compelled, because, although she had studied this man from various standpoints, his personality, strong, direct in some ways, she seemed unable to fathom. The golden head tilted; she allowed an impression of his profile to grow upon her.