“But it’s twenty miles off over the mountains, and this isn’t the nearest way.”
Clay laughed, with a touch of diffidence that became him.
“What’s twenty miles, even on a hill road, when you’re anxious to see your friends?”
He watched her as closely as he dared, for some hint of response, but he was puzzled by her manner.
“It isn’t a road,” she laughed. “Some day you’ll come here in pieces.”
“I wonder whether you’d be sorry?”
“You ought to know. But come along—I believe my aunt is curious about you.”
When he was presented, Miss Dexter gave him a glance of candid scrutiny. Aynsley was marked by a certain elegance and careless good humor, which were not the qualities she most admired in young men, but she liked his face and the frankness of his gaze. If he were one of the idle rich, he was, she thought, a rather good specimen.
“What is your profession?” she asked him bluntly, when they had talked a few moments.
“It’s rather difficult to state, because my talents and pursuits are varied. I’m a bit of a naturalist, and something of a yachtsman, while I really think I’m smart at handling a refractory automobile. When I was younger, it was my ambition to ride a raw cayuse, but now one grapples with the mysteries of valves and cams. The times change, though one can’t be sure that they improve.”