“I suppose you mean—does she hunt me?”
She knew that tone, that expression on his face, knew he was angry; but could not stop herself.
“I did.”
“So you're going to become jealous, Gyp?”
It was one of those cold, naked sayings that should never be spoken between lovers—one of those sayings at which the heart of the one who speaks sinks with a kind of dismay, and the heart of the one who hears quivers. She cantered on. And he, perforce, after her. When she reined in again, he glanced into her face and was afraid. It was all closed up against him. And he said softly:
“I didn't mean that, Gyp.”
But she only shook her head. He HAD meant it—had wanted to hurt her! It didn't matter—she wouldn't give him the chance again. And she said:
“Look at that long white cloud, and the apple-green in the sky—rain to-morrow. One ought to enjoy any fine day as if it were the last.”
Uneasy, ashamed, yet still a little angry, Summerhay rode on beside her.
That night, she cried in her sleep; and, when he awakened her, clung to him and sobbed out: