"I'm not asking your brother," he said boldly.
"Amos and I have to work on his notes," she objected. "That's why we came in early."
"Tut, tut!" protested her brother recklessly. "I've changed my mind. The inspiration is lacking. It's not my day for work. I don't care a hang if the entire carcass of a crested Saurolophus is lost to the world by an afternoon's indolence. I'm—going—to be indolent! There! Whoopee! Hear the cry of independence."
He lifted a foot and kicked the top of the doorway with surprising ease.
"It sounds to me like revolution," said his sister with mock severity, yet with more than a little anxiety.
He picked her up and deposited her outside the door.
"Trot along now, or Mr. Stamford may never ask you again."
"Amos!"
He made a face at her from the doorway and turned his back.
That her annoyance was not assumed Stamford discovered to his embarrassment before they had gone six paces. Once she turned about, to see the laughing faces of the Professor and Mary Aikens regarding them from the doorway. For some minutes their progress was wordless. Stamford was puzzled by her reluctance to leave the ranch-house, for he was convinced that she wanted to come. He knew the wisdom of leaving her to break the silence, of assuming humility, whether he felt it or not.