“I do—do you believe me?” She spoke with a sharpness he had never heard her use before.
He broke out into sudden laughter that this time sounded genuine. Turning from the window, he came toward her and took her hand.
“Are you angry?” he asked. “I don’t wonder. Say the most disagreeable things you can think of, and they won’t be more than I deserve.”
For the second time this afternoon she beamed over his restoration to good humor.
“I’m not a very good person to quarrel with,” she said, looking at him with soft, forgiving eyes, “though, as you see, I’ve got a temper.”
He gave her hand a little pressure and relinquished it, taking up his hat.
“Accept a hundred apologies from me for my rudeness. Good-by.”
“You were disagreeable,” she admitted, as they went together into the hall. “You seemed as if you didn’t believe half I said to you, and actually as if our good luck made you angry.”
Gault had opened the door, and his face was turned from her.
“Oh, don’t think that,” he answered, as he stepped out on to the porch; “whatever gives you happiness adds to mine. Adios, señorita.”