"Good afternoon!" he blurted into Joan's astonished ears; "where are you going?"
Joan turned and confronted him, not in alarm, but utter rout. Naturally there was but one course for a girl to take at such a juncture—but Joan did not take it. Her elementals were alert, too, and she, too, had reached the stage when sounds know shades, and above any cautious appeal was the fear of sending this man adrift again.
"I wonder"—Raymond spoke hurriedly; he wanted to drive that startled look out of the golden eyes—"I wonder if you're the sort that knows truth when she sees it—even if it has to cover itself with the rags of things that aren't truth?"
"I am afraid the heat has affected you," was what she said, gently.
"Well, anyway, you're not afraid of me!" Raymond saw that her eyes had grown steady.
"Oh! no. I'm not afraid of you. I'm not often afraid of anything."
"I thought that. You wouldn't be doing that stunt at the Brier Bush if you were the scary kind." Raymond accompanied his step to Joan's as naturally as if she had permitted him to do so.
"I don't see why you speak as you do of my business," Joan interjected. "It's how one interprets what one does that matters. I make a very good income of what you term my stunt. Perhaps you're accustomed to girls who use such means—wrongfully."
Joan felt quite proud of her small sting, but Raymond broke in joyously: