"There!" she said, with a light touch of her supple fingers. "That will do." And slowly her gray eyes lifted to his.
The color flooded to his face. His eyes became momentarily brilliant. He drew a deep breath. "You told me to be careful. I shall be," he said, bowing slightly. "Please say something. Your silent attack was a little too—too successful."
"Truce?" she queried, laughing.
"Never!" replied Winthrop. "Even as our rather mutual and distinctly illustrious friend Overland says, 'Not till me wires are all down and me lights are out.'"
Collie, standing at the open French window just above them, drew back. Quite naturally, being a young man in love, he misinterpreted all that he had seen and heard. Louise had been away the day he was expected to return to the ranch. She had come back. She was seemingly satisfied with Winthrop's society. She was even more than satisfied; she was flirting with him. An unreasonable, bucolic jealousy, partly due to his condition, overcame Collie's usual serenity. His invalidism magnified the whole affair to absurd proportions.
Perhaps it was the intensity of his gaze that caused Louise to glance up. His expression startled her. His eyes were burning. His face was unnaturally white. He met her glance, but gave no sign of recognition—a rudeness that he regretted even while he manifested it.
Louise turned away proudly, calling Winthrop's attention to a huge garden-seat beneath the live-oaks. "We have dinner out there quite often," she said, her eyes glowing. "Would you care to rest a while after your ride?"
"'A jug of wine—a loaf of bread—'" he quoted.
"But it isn't a wilderness. And dinner won't be ready for an hour yet. Don't you think a wilderness would have been utterly stupid with his 'thou' beside him singing everlastingly? Now please don't say, 'It would depend on the thou.'"
"Do you sing, Miss Lacharme?"