“What have you been doing, Ann, since I saw you last?” asked Maurice. They had reached the little arbor among the evergreens by that time and Maurice flicked away some leaves and twigs from the seat with his handkerchief. “Sit down a bit, sweet cousin,—‘Gentle Hands,’ is it?”
“So Never-Run called me; but you could hardly accuse that old Indian of sentiment, could you?”
“It is not misplaced this time,” said Maurice, sitting down beside Ann and leaning back against the lattice, hands over his head. “Is that a new frock you have on?”
“Same old one. I’ve had no time this summer to think of frocks.”
“I don’t believe that you spend much time thinking of them anyhow.”
“I wonder how I ought to take that, Maurice. A girl that doesn’t think of them at all is likely to be what the girls call ‘dowdy,’ and a girl that thinks about them too much is usually frivolous.”
“You are neither dowdy nor frivolous, Ann, and have so many good looks that you need never worry.”
“Thanks, kind cousin,” said Ann rather laconically, “this is so good of you! But what have you been doing yourself?”
“You have not answered my question,” answered Maurice, “but I rather got you off the subject by my remarks, so unresponsively received! Why, I finished up the camping trip, joined Mother, came home and have hung around more or less ever since. Oh, yes, I went down to New York with Ron on his yacht, but we were not gone long.”
“That must have been fun. You mean Ronald Bentley?”