"It would bother me to have you trailing after me so persistently in any guise!" flashed the girl indignantly.
"It must perforce continue to bother you!" regretted Philip. "Besides," he added absently, "I'm really the Duke of Connecticut in disguise, touring about for my health, and the therapeutic value of hay is enormous."
Now why Diane's cheeks should blaze so hotly at this aristocratic claim of Mr. Poynter's, who may say? But certainly she glanced with swift suspicion at her tranquil guest, who met her eyes with supreme good humor, laughed and fell to whistling softly to himself. Despite a certain significant silence in the camp of his lady, Mr. Poynter smoked most comfortably, puffing forth ingenious smoke-rings which he lazily sought to string upon his pipestem and busily engaging himself in a variety of other conspicuously peaceful occupations. All in all, there was something so tranquil and soothing in the very sight of him that Diane unbent in spite of herself.
"If you'd only join a peace tribunal as delegate-at-large," she said, "you'd eliminate war. I meant to freeze you into going home. I do wish I could stay indignant!"
"Don't," begged Philip humbly. "I'm so much happier when you're not.
"There is another way of managing me," he said hopefully a little later. "I meant to mention it before—"
"What is it?" implored Diane.
"Marry me!"
"Philip!" exclaimed the girl with delicate disdain, "the moon is on your head—"
"Yes," admitted Philip, "it is. It does get me. No denying it. Doesn't it ever get you?"