Now, as he hesitated uncertainly at his own gate, his heart in his boots, she serenely beckoned to him.
"I want to see you, Kenny," she called out.
This was no stricken, unhappy creature who approached him. Her figure was proudly erect; she walked briskly; there was no trace of shame or humiliation in her face; if anything, she was far more at ease than he.
"I want to thank you," she said calmly, "for what you did this morning. Not only for what you did to him but for keeping me from shooting him." She held out her hand, but lowered it instantly when she saw that his own was rather significantly hidden inside the breast of his coat. A look of pain fluttered across her eyes.
"Where is your mother?" he asked lamely.
She seemed to read his thoughts. "Mother and I have talked it all over, Kenneth. She has told me everything."
"Oh, you poor darling!" he cried.
"Don't waste any sympathy on me," she retorted, coldly. "I don't want it. Not from Robert Gwynne's son at any rate."
He was now looking at her steadily. "I see. You don't care for the breed, is that it?"
"Kenny," she began, a solemn note in her voice, "there is no reason why you and I should hurt each other. If I hurt you just now I am sorry. But I meant what I said. I do not want the pity of Robert Gwynne's son any more than you want to be pitied by the daughter of Rachel Carter. We stand on even terms. I just want you to know that my heart is as stout as yours and that my pride is as strong."