He shook his head. “I can’t jump up.”
“Why, what’s the matter, Will?” Her voice was anxious and tender. “Have you hurt your ankle, running?”
“No, no!” he said petulantly. “Didn’t you hear me say I’d never patronize a woman carrier?”
She smiled in relief. “Yes—I heard you say it. But that was the silly you.”
His face hardened. “Silly or sensible, I stick to my word.”
“Drumsticks!” she mocked again. “Jump up and tell me all about your affair with Miss Flippance.”
“Don’t be saucy, Jinny. It don’t become you:”
For the life of him he could not accept her as grown up, much less as an equal, though she sat on high, dominating the situation, whip in hand and horn at girdle, spick and span and cool; while he, astride the stile, was a forlorn figure, with dusty shoes and hot, lowering look.
“It becomes me as much as silliness does you,” said Jinny.
“I don’t see the silliness.”