“What do you mean?” she said.
I merely smiled. Her chin lifted and her brows drew together. I recognized that look; I had seen it before, on that afternoon when I announced my intention of carrying her from the dingy to the skiff.
“Will you be good enough to let go of my rein?” she asked. Every word was a sort of verbal icicle. I felt the chill and my smile was rather forced; but I held the bridle.
“No,” I said, serenely as I could. For a minute—I suppose it was not longer than that, it seemed an hour to me—we remained as we were. Then her lips began to curl upward at the corners, and, to my surprise, she burst out laughing.
“Really, Mr. Paine,” she said, “you are the most impossible person I ever met. Do you always order people about this way? I feel as if I were about five years old and you were my nurse. Are we to stand here the rest of the afternoon?”
“Yes; unless you permit me to go with you and show you the way.”
“But I can't. I'm not going to spoil your picnic. I know you want your lunch. You must. Or, if you don't, I want mine.”
“If you go alone, there are nine chances in ten that you will not get home in time for dinner, to say nothing of lunch.”
She looked at me oddly, I thought, and started to speak. Whatever it was she was going to say she evidently thought better of it, for she remained silent.
Then I had a new idea. Whether or not it was her look which inspired it I do not know. I think it must have been; I never would have dared such a thing without inspiration.