She was sitting in the Gregory buggy, but, most surprising of all, there was no horse between the shafts—no horse was to be seen, anywhere. Best of all, no Simon Jefferson was visible. Fran in the buggy—that was all. Slow traveling, indeed, even for this sleepy old road!
"Not in a hurry, are you?"
"I've arrived," Fran said, in unfriendly tone.
Smaller than ever, she appeared, shrinking back in a corner of the seat, as if the vital qualities of her being were compressed to bring all within the scope of one eyeflash. Abbott loved the laced shadows of the trees upon the bared head, he adored the green lap-robe protecting her feet. The buggy-top was down and the trees from either side strove each to be first, to darken Fran's black hair with shadow upon shade.
"Are you tired of fishing, Fran?"
"Yes, and of being fished."
She had closed the door in his face, but he said—as through the keyhole—"Does that mean for me to go away?"
"You are a pretty good friend, Mr. Ashton," she said with a curl of her lip, "I mean—when we are alone."
"'While we're together, and after we part'," he quoted. "Fran, surely you don't feel toward me the way you are looking."
"Exactly as I'm looking at you, that's the way I feel. Stand there as long as you please—"