Pete was angry with himself. Adam-like he said he wasn't hungry anyhow.
"Then I'll take it back," said Doris sweetly,
Adam-like, Pete decided that he was hungry. "Miss Gray," he blurted, "I—I'm a doggone short-horn! I'm goin' to eat. I sure want to square myself."
"For what?"
Doris was gazing at him with a serene directness that made him feel that his clothing was several sizes too large for him. He realized that generalities would hardly serve his turn just then.
"I was settin' here feelin' sore at the whole doggone outfit," he explained. "Sore at you—and everybody."
"Well?" said Doris unsmilingly.
"I'm askin' you to forgit that I was sore at you." Pete was not ordinarily of an apologetic turn, and he felt that he pretty thoroughly squared himself.
"It really doesn't matter," said Doris, as she placed his tray on the table and turned to go.
"I reckon you're right." And his dark eyes grew moody again.