"And you, Beth—where do you come in?"
She glanced at him quickly.
"Oh, I——," she said with a laugh, "I just trail along after God."
Her irony meant no irreverence but a vast derogation of Shad Wells. Somehow her point of view was very illuminating.
"I'm afraid you make him very unhappy," he ventured.
"That's his lookout," she finished.
Peter was taking a great delight in watching her profile, the blue eyes shadowed under the mass of her hair, eyes rather deeply set and thoughtful in repose, the straight nose, the rather full underlip ending in a precipitous dent above her chin. He liked that chin. There was courage there and strength, softened at once by the curve of the throat, flowing to where it joined the fine deep breast. Yesterday she had seemed like a boy. To-day she was a woman grown, feminine in every graceful conformation, on tiptoe at the very verge of life.
But there was no "flapper" here. What she lacked in culture was made up in refinement. He had felt that yesterday—the day before. She belonged elsewhere. And yet to Peter it would have seemed a pity to have changed her in any particular. Her lips were now drawn in a firm line and her brows bore a curious frown.
"You don't mind my calling you Beth, do you?"
She flashed a glance at him.