"You look like Rodney Barnes," I said with a laugh as I applied the clay to her afflicted nose.
"And I feel like the old boy. I think my nose is trying to jump off and run away."
The clay having been well applied she began surveying herself with a little hand mirror which she had carried in the pocket of her riding coat.
"What a fright I am!" she mused.
"But you are the best girl in the world."
"Don't waste your pretty talk on me now. I can't enjoy it—my nose aches so. I'd rather you'd tell me when—when it is easier for you to say it."
"We don't see each other very often."
"If you will come out on this road next Saturday afternoon I will ride until I find you and then we can have another talk."
"All right. I'll be here at four-thirty and I'll be thinking about it every day until then."
"My nose feels better now," she said presently and added: "You might tell me a little more if you want to."